These Things Come in Threes
by BonJiro
Summary: They were all prepared for the worst, hurtling ever closer toward the inevitable encounter with the Androids and their own potential destruction. But life has a funny way of changing when the end seems nigh; counted days become precious, and even the rarest opportunity can become obvious... if only one has the courage not to see it squandered.
1. Coffee, Strawberries and Cigarettes

Chapter 1: **Coffee, Strawberries and Cigarettes**

There was a good reason she never let her mother see her room.

Binding folders of every colour sat stacked in lopsided towers. A wire wastebin overflowed with rubbish and paper alike, and a few dog eared books and magazines were offset by small piles of clothes here and there. The bedsheets lay tussled and askew under several more pillows than necessary, lined at each side by wooden end tables that bore neglected lamps, used mugs and one sticker covered alarm clock. It was fortunate, perhaps, that the mess was mostly shrouded in darkness.

The soft glow of her laptop was only enough to illuminate the desk it sat upon, making crisp silhouettes of the crumpled notes strewn about empty wrappers of various snackfoods—chips, the odd chocolate bar—and three empty punnets of strawberries to surround an idle left hand. The keyboard was sticky on one side with an old coffee stain, and everytime the computer was opened, the scent of it seemed renewed somehow, sweet and almost sickly. All was silent save the muffled shifting of her mouse and the click of it every few seconds, followed by the sharp few taps of number keys. Despite this quiet calm, the bedroom was in such a state of disarray that chaos seemed present anyway. It was far more the abode of a teenager than that of a woman nearing thirty, and in fact a few posters from college years still remained, tattered and scribbled on as they now were.

But nonetheless, its owner had little intent to rectify this any time soon, though the to-do list tacked to her door said otherwise.

Perched upon an old office chair, the blue haired heiress to the Capsule Corporation fortune sat slightly hunched with knees tucked close to her chest, letting a pensive gaze flit about the square of light before her. In the privacy of her darkened squalor, she wore little more than a pink nightgown, unflattering with long sleeves, that just covered her thighs. The up-do of curls she styled during the day fell languid now that the spell of the curling iron had grown weak, the afro-like perkiness resembling something more of short ringlets now night had fallen. Her make up had been removed since retiring to her room as well.

Bulma Briefs would not be caught dead outside of her bedroom like this, of course, and so it was clear that she intended on staying put... It was also clear she had not seen company in her room for a while, and that no gentleman caller would grace it tonight, either.

Almost unconsciously, her left hand shifted to brush the empty bottom of a punnet, and only when her fingers found no prize did her attention wander from the screen. Blue brows furrowed some as she dragged the container closer to her, peering expectantly in the dim glow. The luscious red of her strawberries was now only a disappointing few tufts of green leaves and discarded white tops.

"Great..." she pouted, shoving the plastic aside with a sigh. _Well, I guess that's it for tonight... I'm not going all the way down to the kitchen like this... unless everybody is in bed by now._

Humming thoughtfully, her gorgeous features contorted into a look of sly curiosity, cerulean gaze snapping to check the time at the bottom corner of her screen. It was only then she realised how long she had spent working over yet another design schematic, drawn into her own little world of calculation, and now past five o'clock in the morning warned of a swiftly approaching dawn. Her jaw dropped a little as she stared offended by such a number. Lies, surely.

She turned quickly, elbow propped upon the back of her chair as her head whipped to catch sight of her alarm clock, and Bulma was almost certain of a conspiracy when the red numbers matched that of her laptop. Defeated, the heiress could only hang her head with a tired shake, bringing a thumbnail to her lip to chew.

_Well, I guess that answers that question._

"Ugh... Bulma, you are going to work yourself to death, one of these days..." she muttered around her nail, and rolling her eyes at herself, lazily shifted to stand. "So much for sleep."

_Oh, but sleep is for the weak, anyway, _she thought with a stretch, _that's what the ape would say._

Her amusement faded quickly at the thought, and her arms would flop to her sides as a distasteful grimace took her. Vegeta. Suffice to say, Bulma was more or less fed up with the surly saiyan darkening the halls of her home, but she supposed she had brought that upon herself.

_That's what I get for being nice, _she scoffed internally, snatching a half empty packet of cigarettes from the cluttered desk; _It's not like I even got a 'thank you' from him, and he's already cost us a small fortune to put up, **and** an entire ship's worth of equipment_. _He's still rude, does nothing to help around the house or anything..._ _Here I am, going over new pressure systems to offset the energy output of both him and the insane amounts of gravity he wants to train in, and what do I get for it? _

"Oooh, pain is _nothing_ to me. Leave me alone, _Woman_. I don't _need _anybody's help, I can_ kill myself _on my own..." came a terrible and sarcastic impression of her 'favourite' person, waving her hands about dramatically. Slow steps weaved her quickly around a pile of clothes and toward the sliding door of her balcony with a frown. "...Sure as hell could use the help of a good psychiatrist, for one!" she hissed as if he could hear her upon the cool breeze of night, glass shuddering to the force used as it rolled to one side.

Bare feet padded softly over stone tile to send a slight shiver through her, but that was why she favoured the pink nightgown—ugly though it may have been, it was thick and warm. Leaning against the balustrade to scan the stars above, Bulma wondered idly of her friends as the cigarette was lifted to her lip. There was absolutely no doubting Vegeta came from another planet entirely, that was for sure; his hair alone could attest to that, even before you found out he was a sociopathic, mass murdering, obsessive-compulsive, planet-jacking were-ape douche that could both fly and punch anything into orbit...

_...and a Prince, _she added mentally, letting a cynical grimace take her, _can't forget that. He'd never forgive me, for all the effort he puts into reminding everybody._

But Goku had fallen from those stars above as well. More specifically, the very same set of stars that Vegeta hailed from and secretly she couldn't help but marvel at that. It was like comparing chalk and cheese. He had changed her life, among so many others, and with them the very destiny of Earth itself. Gohan, too—he was so different to his father, and yet, so very alike in habit and heart... Even Piccolo hailed from a distant star, the planet Namek, which she had sworn never to return to; new or not.

With a small flicker of flame, a few memories sparked with it as a light puff of smoke was lost to the night, and she smiled. It seemed like only a few years ago, she had found the tailed boy that started all of this.

A Sweet Sixteenth birthday over the summer was normal enough, and to protect the presents from his spoiled daughter, Doctor Briefs had stashed them away in a place he thought she would not look... But Bulma knew her father all too well, and it wasn't long before her secret searching came to an end within their basement. She never did peek at what he'd bought for her though, in fact, she'd received her presents with all the surprise intended upon her actual birthday. When the heiress had rifled through the boxes and old draws below, it was a dragonball she found instead and, taken with the peculiar find, set about researching.

A self satisfied smirk crossed her features as she traced the moonless skies. What was it, a mere two days of fiddling about with energy signature recognition before she managed to design a working prototype for the radar? Within a week over the summer vacation, she'd set out on a road trip and found another of the mystical baubels and was well on her way to the next...

_...Until Goku wandered out with that massive fish and totalled my car, _she giggled at the memory, tapping the cigarette over the balcony and watching the ashes drift down.

From there it seemed life had unfolded with so many twists and turns, a flurry of adventure and experience one simply could never have imagined or planned for passing in the blink of an eye. Her first love, all of her friends, the world tournements... and of course, King Piccolo. Goku had grown into a handsome man, with a worried wife in Chichi and a smart boy in Gohan. She and Yamcha... Well, they were off and on through the years, but Bulma knew she'd always care for him.

A light roll of her eyes came with a sigh—she had sworn she'd marry him, when she was younger and a little more idealistic... but as the years rolled by, the heiress wasn't sure she would ever be married. Truth be told, she no longer truly cared for the idea, though that didn't mean Bulma had no idea what to expect or hadn't already planned it all out.

She would wear white and powdery blues, and the cermony would be held in her mother's gardens by the fountain, an aisle lined by blue orchids set to frame her upon a white laced altar. Her father smiling proudly as his beautiful baby girl strolled gracefully down the carpet runner, her mother dabbing happy tears away and wearing pearls... That all sounded lovely enough, until she accounted for the rest.

She could already imagine it all ruined by gaudy orange outfits as far as the eye could see. One purple turtle shell in the front row strapped over a tropical print shirt, a triplet of eyes staring up from all the pairs and Krillin's bald head adding painful glare to every photo.

An entire buffet would be devoured and a wedding cake picked at before Goku sat uncomfortably in a hideous brown—or heavens forbid, purple—suit and bow tie, awkwardly tugging at the stiff material that no doubt hid his gi beneath. Chichi would have Gohan in much the same, straighting his clothes at every opportunity and chastising everyone in an attempt to control the affair. Maid of Honour; made of anger.

Oolong would nasally make snide remarks as he aided in devouring the food too soon and in general, make a pig of himself in more ways than one. Launch would arrive late, bring a duffel bag full of unexplained money as a gift, and sooner or later, be the cause of both Tien's early departure and the last of the punch—if not the start of the wine—to be consumed. Puar would likely be both the ringbearer and the cushion the ring sat upon, and all the while, Piccolo would sit aloof like a sore—green—thumb and ignore it all from his place under a tree.

Oh yeah, that sounded like the _perfect_ day.

About the only thing that did seem desirable in her fantasy wedding was her dress, the cake—before anybody arrived, that is—and her future husband. He would be standing smartly beside her in a black suit, with a pristine white silk shirt beneath it and an icy blue tie. Hands held behind his back, he'd await her with that intimately fond shimmer in sharp eyes. Handsome, calm and collected, a blue rose suarvely tucked into his lapel. The husband she so often used to dream of was, of course...

...Faceless.

A stab of guilt hit her and a longer drag was taken than usual, the harshness of it scratching her throat. She'd gone a year free of the habit, but within the last few weeks, she'd picked it back up. Yamcha would've had a fit if he knew she was smoking again... she had promised him after all, and it almost felt like a small betrayal. Betrayal, yes, there was a strange undertow of that between them over the past few years. It wasn't that Yamcha was a bad guy, or even that he wasn't good enough for it, but if one thing hadn't changed since those old days it was the attention he received from other women.

The difference was, now that he had overcome his nerves, Yamcha was prone to returning those advances.

She had tried to fit him into the suit so many times, and paint his scarred visage—handsome and rugged—upon the unknown figure standing with her to be wed. Sometimes, she thought it may make things so much simpler if she could. Before the first time they had broken up, she saw his eyes in the dream of her wedding crisply, the lines of his face and every detail of the bandit's boyish good looks grinning back at her. But once the magic had dimmed some and their romance took its first dive, his features had grown indistinct. Only a vague smile that reminded her loosely of him and his scent around her, maybe his laugh distantly echoing. The second time they had gotten back together saw nothing but the black of his hair, and perhaps some blurred and distant remnant of what was once so clearly him.

But Bulma knew now that wasn't Yamcha's place, and likely never had been. Forcing him into it was something she never wanted for them, and though a great many things could be said for their past, the future loomed to say very little. Another memory had risen to steal the horizon, and just as fresh as the moment she had met Goku or Yamcha were the awful sounds of gunfire and her heart beating wild with fear and panic. Helicopters, biege uniforms, and the cold eyes of wanton killers; each adorned by the crimson hourglass turned on its side. Indeed, an hourglass was all she could see of the emblem, now...

The Red Ribbon Army stalked them still, and threatened only death where once there might have been her wedding. No, she had let such childish things go, piece by piece, and surrendered them to the shadows clouding her future. Bulma had come to terms with the reality of things, the humble cynicism of accepting that there was no wedding around her corner, that Yamcha and a few others and even herself might well be dead in three years, and that the Androids were presently all anyone had to look forward to.

Bleak, perhaps, but these things come in threes. Three Dragonballs to begin, three years counting down to a potential end, and three breakups to signal a definate end.

It was the very least Bulma could do for her old flame, not to let him waste any time being driven by expectations. There was no sense in letting him believe his future—if he had one—should be spent with her, just to suit old habits or be drawn out for the opinion of others. Between his baseball career and her work for the Corporation, it was no surprise she and Yamcha hadn't much time for each other like they used to, and more and more things just kept pulling them apart. All his spare time would be spent training now, and hers would go towards whatever equipment Yamcha or Vegeta needed to prepare. Nerves were frazzled, arguments were common, the clock was ticking, and old problems still darkened her dwindling love life.

It was better to start fresh, let go and get on with life—or what might well be left of it—than to let the both of them flounder about picking up the pieces, least of all now. If, when all was said and done, the dust settled they were still alive and well, perhaps then they could think about rebuilding a battered relationship that had long suffered from neglect.

Slender fingers swept her brow with a tired exhale, wisping smoke from her lip in a silent sigh. _I guess I'll talk to him later... I'll call Kame house and see if him and Krillin are still sparring, _she finally conceded within herself, letting the corner of her mouth tick with some reluctance. _It's all for the best, and he knows just as well as I do we just don't have it like we did... _

That awkward fluster that stole Yamcha's face when Goku mentioned a baby was enough to tell as it was. Yamcha was in no mind to be settling down and having a family, and though Bulma could only guess Goku meant well with a light hearted joke at the couple's expense, the timing made the both of them think. They hadn't even talked of it since, as if avoiding the subject altogether, but Bulma knew they both had been mulling it over... it hung over their heads like a cloud, marring the future.

What if they did both survive the Androids? ...Was that what they had to look forward to? Settling down into some boring humdrum of normalcy, until she took over for her father and he outgrew his prime to settle into a penpushing job within the Corporation? _Her_ Yamcha? The free-spirited bandit, the shy goofy type turned sly winking playboy, with his cola advert and team sponserships as he grinned down from the side of buildings in his baseball uniform and gave a cocky '_Let the bubbles lift you higher!_' to the world below?

No. Their romance worked on excitement, and she was old enough to understand that now. It was a thing of passion, a whirlwind of chaos and exuberence. They kept each other young, and the appeal of it lay in that fact—when they were together, they had an excuse to be teenagers, to be selfish and unabatedly carefree. They didn't have to face tomorrow, because they kept each other too busy within the moment.

There was no room for a child, or marriage, in such a dynamic.

Yamcha would make a fantastic father, when he was ready for it, and Bulma would defend that to the day she died; any child they had would be well loved and well adjusted. But the same simply couldn't be said for a marriage between them, and having a baby was no way to make it so.

_I mean, where would the passion be then? We'd always be friends, sure... _A final puff of silver smoke left her before Bulma ground out the butt and idly flicked it over the edge. _But there's no magic in it anymore. We can't keep this up forever. I can't stand all the flirting and the girls, he can't stand my moods, we disagree on so many things; we'd just be going through the motions! I don't want to live like that, and neither does he._

Her eyes would close briefly, as if mournful, and knew it had to be so. _It was great while it lasted, though..._

Leaning back some, she rolled her shoulders in a shrug and let her gaze roam the lonely silhouette of the gravity capsule below. It seemed strange to look at it idle, without the haunting red glow through port windows and the electric hum of use buzzing through the air.

"...Healthy baby... Oh, Goku, I'm sorry. I wish it were that simple... I really do." long lashes blinked slow as she mused to herself, languid curls of blue feathering against the base of her neck. "Maybe Saiyans are just crazy and don't get how life works if it doesn't involve punching things. Yeah... that's got to be it."

A light hearted giggle escaped her for the joke, but it was hard to break her mind from its sombre course. There was no way in hell she was in any mood to continue working on the pressure system. In fact, if anything, it only put more strain on her need for strawberries. She struggled with herself, visibly swaying to and fro and cringing at the decision.

"Yes... no... yes, no... yes..." she muttered to herself, and with a deep inhale to steel her resolve, the quest to the kitchen was on.

"Oh, what the hell. It's my house, who cares...?" she told herself quickly, turning to carelessly toss her cigarettes on top of the outside table and hopping through the mess of her room with practiced ease. The turning tumbler of her door made her wince, somehow seeming louder than ever before, but as a mess of blue curls peeked out of her room, the hallway was dark and empty. Just to be sure, Bulma waited for a moment, listening for any footsteps or movement as her gaze scanned up and down the corridor, and when finally she was satisfied, she slipped out and closed the door slowly behind.

Like a ferret, she took to standing on her toes, peering over at the stairs before a few light bounds carried her swiftly toward them, and she fancied herself catlike as arms were held out in balance. She knew it would look ridiculous if she were seen, but some small part of her was convinced that these actions would aid her stealth. Gentle fingertips caressed the walls of the stairway as she darted down. Around the corner, half way now, she peered again and found it clear, hopping lightly until bare feet found the plush cream carpet of the loungeroom.

A light breath of relief and satisfaction left her then as her arms fell to her sides, job done. Over her shoulder, she shot a victorious smirk to the stairs, having conquered them, and took towards the large archway of the kitchen, pleased with herself. No lights on, either. Good. Even so, she paused before flipping the switch, and convinced of being alone, the click illuminated her prize with a few blinks before the light was steady.

The fridge—that beautiful monster of chromed steel and doubled glass, fully stocked for all to see and pilfer. She could already see the delicious red of plump strawberries, nestled in sweetly beside the lettuce, waiting for her to liberate them. Distance closed within seconds, Bulma barely registered the cold floor under her feet or the frigid gust as the fridge door swung wide. Only the giddy feel of the plastic punnet as she snatched it quickly, filling a free hand with an indulgently spotted container of cream and turning away to close the door with a negligent push of her hip.

_Spoils_, she thought greedily, wearing a naughty smile as she put her prizes down on the counter, flipping the kettle on for good measure—she needed her coffee, if she was to get through the day without sleep. As the tell tale whistle began to bubble low, she would lean against the countertop and walk two fingers toward the fruit, skillfully opening the top of their container with little more than a flick and plucking up a strawberry without mercy.

But just as the sweet scent of it hit her nose, hovering mere inches from her lips, from the corner of her eye a shadow moved beyond the archway. She froze, her head whipping to cast frantic eyes into the darkness of the loungeroom, tracing each silhouette with sharp suspicion. She strained to hear, but with the kettle warming beside her, found no purchase. Slowly, Bulma leaned forward to look, as if whatever was hiding there might be just behind the wall, and hesitant, made a move to investigate.

She stood awkwardly on the threshold of the room, glancing about with paranoid curiosity, somehow terrified to make that last step onto soft carpet. Something landed upon the leather of the couch, and she gasped, flinching back as her heart skipped a beat. Immediately, her attention fixed to the origin, she found a set of eyes staring back at her and as she studied them in the dark, her hand lifted to rest over her chest in relief. Her father's cat, of course, and upon sighting her it let forth a purr from the shadows, blending into them seamlessly save only for the shimmer of light on his fur from the kitchen. His tail twitched and he wondered of the possibilty that she may feed him.

The heiress eyed him intently, feeling silly for it all, and gave a grimace. Paranoia gone, she approached the back of the couch with a forgiving smile, and giggled some to the welcoming meow as her fingers brushed over his head.

"I bet you think you're funny, huh? Well, too bad, buster. I'm not giving you anything after that, you can forget it." poking her tongue out, she was quick to leave him, wandering back to the kitchen as the cat watched, forlorn.

Shaking her head with a wisp of curls, Bulma finally popped the strawberry in her mouth, completely ignoring the cold floor as she swept back toward the whining kettle. She had no regrets in that moment, letting the juices swirl about her tongue with flavour, and felt the overwhelming urge to have another one immediately—this time with cream. She wasn't at all surprised when she heard the light padding of something approaching from behind, and smirking to herself, she considered taking back what she'd said and pouring some off for the cat.

"Oh, alright. You can have some cream, but that's it! You can butter me up all you like, but no more until breakfast, you got that?" she teased over her shoulder, focussed on ripping the seal away.

Her blood turned to ice, however, when the 'cat' responded in a dark and gravelled tone.

"I'll eat whatever I damn well feel like, Woman."

_...Oh, you've gotta be shitting me..._ Her face contorted quickly into one of embarrassed despair, and praying to any force that would hear her, Bulma bit her lip to prevent any cursing. Refusing to turn around, she pretended instead to busy herself with coffee making, reaching upward to grab a cup from the cupboard quickly.

"...Good morning to you too, Vegeta." she mused sarcastically, feeling awkward and subdued. "And just so you know, I was talking to the cat, thank you very much. So... What has _you_ up so early...?" she could only hope the nervous waver to it didn't draw any attention.

He stood within the archway, bulky arms folded over his chest, and settled a dark gaze upon his host with blatant scrutiny. Though she wouldn't see it, the sneering reply was enough to infer his scowl was slightly fiercer than usual, and the surly Prince seemed all to content to let it burn a hole in the back of her head for such an idiotic question.

"You know better than anyone my training always begins at six. I'm in no mood for your stupidity, so if it's all the same, keep your coy small talk to a minimum." he growled from behind her, narrowing his eyes with impatience. Almost as an aside, he added low, "...If you can."

A moment of silence—golden silence, in Vegeta's opinion—fell about the kitchen then, something tense appearing to thicken the air before the clatter of a spoon rang out, negligently cast aside. Bulma fought the urge to turn and face him, forcefully having to stop herself, though her head did cock to one side. Glaring at him tiredly from the very corner of her eye, she drew a long and patient breath, biting her cheek as her tone became strained.

"Vegeta, what day is it?" she asked suddenly, expectant though she knew the answer already.

The Saiyan audibly scoffed behnd her as he began toward the fridge, almost in a point of brushing her off. "Don't be ridiculous. It's Friday." the door opened with a shunt, and the cold draft that filled the air only highlighted the bitterness to it.

"Yep, it is. You and I had a deal, Vegeta. Friday is your weekly day off, or I stop all upgrades until you take one. So, I'll ask again..." it was somewhere between motherly and nagging, as Bulma turned her head back to her task, but to finish it switched to something condescendingly innocent. "_Why _are you up so early?"

From behind the glass pane in the fridge door, Vegeta's head set into a slow incline toward her once again, and an inately evil expression was thankfully missed by her—it was a miracle the glass didn't shatter for bearing the brunt of it. Bare fingers tightened their grip upon the chrome frame enough that indentation would be clear when they left it, and hatefully, the Saiyan seethed a deadly calm hiss through sharp teeth.

"I _told_ you, Woman. I _train _at _six_."

Bulma was quick to match him, equally as forceful as she went about pouring the water.

"_Not _on _Fridays_. If you even think about going out there, I'll deactivate the capsule entirely and you can train out on the damn lawn for a week." despite their back and forth, she had fetched another mug and poured it full, and before the Prince could get another word in, Bulma's tone cheered. "Milk, please."

Gritting his teeth, he would blatantly ignore her request, angered by the fact she would even make it in the current context of discussion. There should not have _been _a discussion. How dare she interfere into his affairs so far as to deny him an entire day, every week, in which to make progress? Had she even done the math behind that as to how much time wasted that amounted to annually, over three years? And _still_, she asserted that she was a genius. It was as infuriating as it was infantile, and just the notion that had she worked that all out and seen no problem with it was enough to make him paranoid of how shoddy her technical work actually was.

No doubt the mechanisms he trained with operated on zipties and paperclips to hold them together... but then, that was what had started this ridiculous farce of concern.

His left eye ticked, and slamming the fridge door shut with remarkable restraint, set about her with a snarl. "Woman, I will make this as monosyllabic as possible, for the final time. I don't _care _what _you_ _want _me to do. I care about what _I need to do_." he paced steadily to her side, laying a palm flat against the countertop and growling as he faced her profile, whether she looked to him or not. A thumb was jutted to his chest and stubbornly, he bore his teeth. "I need to surpass Kakarot. I need to become a Super Saiyan, and now, I need to do this on schedule. The fact that you've developped a guilt complex for your half-arsed piece of garbage blowing up with me inside of it, is none of my concern. So, unless you have a deathwish three years from now, or right here in this kitchen, I'll be training _at six_."

Bulma's self conscious avoidance was shattered almost as quickly as her ability to hold her tongue at this time of the morning. Abandoning the half made coffees, her own hand slammed down upon the counter like a dueling gauntlet, she turned to him with a look of indignity. It took her a moment to run the fact he'd actually gone there through her mind, but as soon as she had hold of his audacity, her gaping mouth spat acid and her features twisted into an affronted frown.

"Excuse me?! I had nothing to do with it! That ship was a breakthrough in technology engineered by my father—a master, and pioneer in his field—to suit _your_ crazy demands! It was an _improvement_ on the design Goku used! He told you not to take it over two-fifty with the droids, _you're_ the one who breached the structual integrity by ignoring him! State of the art gravitational generator and four military class shield droids up in smoke, along with an entire ship fitted for travel and almost my housewith them, you jerk!"

Slender brows knitted together in fierce mimicry of his expression, and waving a hand to emphasise it all, Bulma suddenly found her finger poking his scarred chest in sharp jabs. "Do you have _any_ idea what that cost us? You're lucky you drained the fuel cells, or this whole compound could've—Ow!"

She hadn't even seen his hand move, but still her fragile wrist was caught within a vice-like grip, precision rippling within cordlike muscle in his forearm, threatening to tighten further. Within an instant he had calculated the pressure needed to cause sharp pain, without doing any real damage, and as it shot up her arm like searing fire in her veins, it gave her frantic pause. An effortless tug drew her forward, jerked toward him so that his dark features clouded all of her gaze, and blue eyes widened with some shock—she'd never been handled by him like this, and unexpected as it was, she found a chilling line drawn in the sand. A rush swept her spine, sending her whole body on defense, tense as it seized like a rabbit in the headlights of an oncoming car.

The Saiyan's sharp eyes cornered her easily, predatory orbs like dunnest smoke amidst a white sea, and only inches from her face, the dark circles about his eyes were obvious. Bulma was not the only one to have pulled an all nighter, it seemed, and Vegeta's visage this close boasted a few of them... it easily explained why he was more surly than usual, though suddenly his aggression was nowhere to be found. A calm had taken his features, and with it, the harsh lines his face drew morbid serenity as he stared her down. Inclining his chin, she saw his eyes twitch to narrow, brief and concise as his tongue clicked.

"I could've sworn by the look on your face, when last I told you to leave me be, that you had realised your being a hinderence... But allow me to clarify further." his voice was quiet, somehow smoother, and unnerving in how emotionally barren it came. "A Saiyan's power increases dramatically each time we recover from a near death experience. Thanks to your shabby workmanship, I had one. I recovered enough to stand, and therefore, train. Training during that recovery can potentially boost my increase in strength, by prolonging the healing process. It was this technique of drawing out injuries that allowed my Father to topple the Tuffle army with so few numbers, after weakening them with a moonlight assault previously."

Cerulean eyes wavered over his with some confusion, though what he said made enough sense—it was given so bluntly, so cold and factual... and yet, it was the first time he had ever mentioned his father. It hit her mind like a wave crashing upon the shore, and Bulma was no longer unnerved, but intrigued. The tiniest tidbit of his history, and an entire curtain was pulled aside to reveal reason behind his madness. How much more of him could be unlocked by the past's key? It almost saddened her, in some small way, that he mentioned it so distantly, so factually, without even a hint of the pride he took in his heritage.

One of his brows twitched upward in question, and his gaze sharpened over a warning. "...Or perhaps you fancy yourself more familiar with Saiyan biology than my father, the King? Maybe he should've taken every Friday off, as well, and let the Tuffles rebuild their forces."

Her gorgeous features twisted into bemusement, and squinting with something akin to disbelief, the discomfort of her wrist seemed suddenly lessened. "...Are you honestly going to stand there and tell me that my arranging medical attention for you that day..." she paused, words dancing on the tip of her tongue as her head shook ever so slightly, trying to make sense of it. "..._stifled _you?"

The corner of his mouth ticked upward, and the ghost of his smirk—that awful, smackworthy smirk—appeared. "So there is a brain in there. Little miracles." As if it were the prize for a correct answer, his brows rose a fraction and the steely grip released, his arms returning to their default position over his chest. "I told you I didn't need—or want—your help, Woman, because what helps a human only holds a Saiyan back. Now, I _am_ going to train... and should anything go awry, I don't want to wake up with you at my bedside again. I want to wake up in the rubble, in a pool of my own blood, ready to receive the benefits it brings me. Understand?"

Stepping back to put some distance between them, Bulma couldn't help but stare, studying him like a grotesque new development in a petry dish and wondering what had happened. She blinked a few times, and though her mind simply screamed at her to nod and get the milk and just leave well enough alone, the rest of her rational mind couldn't quite let it all go so easily. Her mouth opened and closed, and then a quick breath was taken to speak, though nothing came. She turned back to the mugs, glanced back at him, and then sent a vacant stare toward the kettle as her lips remained parted and lost for words.

And then they came bursting forth anyway, a thousand thoughts coming to a swift halt in her head to converge on a single point—this man was actually insane.

"...What _world_ do you live in?! I held you back? What does that even mean? You idiot, you would have _died_ if not for me that day!" her hands flew up before she could restrain them, caught utterly disbelief as she was, and blue curls whipped about as her gaze snapped to him again, wide eyed. "The only reason it was _near death_ at all was because Yamcha and I hauled your ass inside and into the employee injury ward! You should be thanking me for having a 'power boost' at all," her fingers curled twice to that, "Because if I'd have left you out there, it would've been a grave! I thought we were past this whole arrogant tough guy act, Vegeta, what is it gonna take to prove to you that you're flesh and blood?!"

Vegeta's face darkened with impatience as, once again, it seemed to go right over her head, and pushing off of the counter with a snarl he growled back at her. "Never mind! Just stay out of my way!"

Whatever semblance of breakfast he had come to find was swiftly forgotten, it seemed, in lieu of the heiress' apparent stupidity. Bulma gawked after him, still blindsided by how impossible the man could be, and in a fit of pique turned to pick up a mug of half prepared coffee. She spun on her heel, yelling after him even as the sour Prince retreated through the archway and back into the shadows beyond the lounge, and gestured the mug roughly to spill some of it as she went.

"And to think I almost made you a coffee, you ungrateful son of a bitch! You never even passed me the milk! Rude!"

And with that, the blackened water of Vegeta's beverage would be unceremoniously tossed, with a hint of malice, to be splashed into the sink. Bulma stared at it as it ran mercilessly down the drain, circling in a slow death and never to touch the Saiyan's lips. Something vicious flashed in her eye and her hand shot for the tap, an abusive smack to the lever letting icy water burst forth to wash it all away.

If only it were so simple to be rid of the Saiyan himself, or at the very least, his near suicidal tendancies.

Setting the now empty mug aside with an agitated sigh, Bulma pressed hands to the edge of the sink in silent pathos for it all. Blue brows were furrowed as the chaos of yet another argument flew around in her head like an angry hive of bees. Vegeta... never had she encountered someone so difficult to even know, let alone share living space with. Not that they engaged in the usual routines acclimitised by housemates. She'd run him through most relationships she knew of, trying to find a category for him—siblings didn't quite fit, ex-lovers was closer to it though bereft of any intimate knowledge of one another. He was far too unruly to be a pet of any description, though at times she was reminded of her mother's managerie of stray animals that had been loved into submission.

If she thought of him like an injured stray she was trying to care for, that seemed fairly close to the mark, but there was no slow building of trust or companionship occuring; that much was clear.

With a final shake of her head, she let it go, turning back to her beloved strawberries to find salvation in the comfort of them. This day was going to be a long one, and no matter what happened concerning bandits and Saiyans, her gut was telling her that she was going to be seeing a lot more of her room—and far less of anybody else—for quite some time.

_I am going to need more Strawberries._

**A/N:**

**After a spate of personal drama, I gotta say, it fills me with spastic joy to sit down a write something again. I mean, I know Zelda is my usual FicFlavour, but I grew up with Vegeta/Bulma in my head. They are easily my favourite official coupling from anything, ever. I can't believe I've never sat down to do a three yers fic before-I mean, for any DBZ fangirl, it's essentially a rite of passage. Plenty of drawings and whatnot over the years, but this'll be my first foray into that wonderful tradition of filling in the blank Toriyama left. He said he was no good at romance... But I think he made a smart move, leaving it up to the fans' imagination. **

**So, everything is dying down around me lately, more time to write is opening up again and to start it off, and hopefully greet some new readers, here's chapter one of my first bonafide V/B fiction. Yay! At least I'll be able to catch up on my other stories now, as well.**

**Onwards to Glory!**


	2. You, Me, Us

Chapter 2: **You, Me, Us**

The wind rushing by just outside of the windows made her feel alive, and privately, Bulma often imagined herself flying at such speeds without a cockpit around her.

She, as blue as the sky, part of it and allowed to dance upon the horizon with grace and fluidity, the sunlight caught in glorious camber through her hair as it flowed like water in the wind. Faster; higher to pierce a hole in every cloud, to sail across the light of day and in that instant to feel free and untouchable, powerful and at ease. How she envied the others, from time to time, in how such flight came so naturally to them and forever eluded her.

So many times she'd begged Yamcha to take her flying with him. Well... insisted. It was a rare indulgence, and one she adored more than the others likely knew. One would never guess, from the fuss she'd kicked up on her flights with Goku upon the Nimbus cloud. But then again, that was different. That was out of necessity and convenience, and clinging for dear life to an unwashed undershirt at a fraction of your usual size made looking down just a little bit more frightening than usual...

But no, Bulma didn't care about the wind blurring her vision, or the dreadful effect it held on her hairstyles; not truly. The sensation was enough—being lifted into the clouds and entrusting your life to another's capable hands, as they literally whisked you off your feet to show you the world. Strong hands that had held her many times, calloused and rough with a history of battle, and often carried the fate of the world within them. There was nothing quite so intimately romantic as that to her, and the sheer trust involved only served to heighten such skyward embraces into the realms of the breathless and heart throbbing.

It was something she was going to miss dearly, out of all the things she and Yamcha shared.

Leaning forward in her seat and caught up in the reverie, she was halted almost painfully by the belting as it began to dig into her frame. Escapism torn from her, the heiress would sigh, sending a pout towards the Gods and letting her hands ease off of the controls some. The heavy whine of the propulsion system reminded her, as ever, that she was at the mercy of technology like any usual human. Perhaps that was why she sought to master it so; a mechanical genius taking her own path to power and freedom, letting her inventions lift her to heights she wasn't supposed to reach.

_Maybe that old Doctor Gero was onto something, _she smirked to herself grimly, and leaned to flip down a gear as her vehicle slowed.

Cerulean eyes scanned the tilted horizon as she began to bank her small plane, and there, like a ruby floating lost upon the vast and shimmering seas, she spotted it.

Kame House.

A tiny giggle escaped her every time she approached it. Pink was a horrid colour to paint your home, but given the current location, it worked wonders for navigation—it was all too easy to spot from on high, sticking out like a beacon as it did. Given the aerial travel of most who frequented the place, it made quite a lot of sense, but even so the pink house with a red roof was as gaudy a thing as it was a happy sight.

Circling inward, her descent was easy. She'd made the landing more times than she could count now, and though it was commonplace, a self satisfied smile crossed gorgeous features as sparkling sand cushioned it further. Suspension released, a second or two of sinking, and then the technological exhale of relief and a job well done—oh, how she loved that sound. The high pitched whine of her engines wound down quickly, and with a few flicks of her wrist, the last few switches were disengaged to let a final wheeze of the exhaust bring it rest. It was a comforting routine, in its own way. Predictable, reliable, measurable and calming, and as she took hands to the belt buckle, unclipping it slowly, she allowed that faithful hum of machinery to steady her for what was to come.

The side of her glass bubble opened with its familiar hiss, and the heiress took her time as she stepped out onto the sun-warmed sands of this tiny island, breathing deeply of the sea air and allowing her hand to linger upon the metal framework. Instead of stepping away absent mindedly to head for the flimsy fly-screen door, however, she found her eyes fixed upon it from afar and hesitant, began to chew her lip in thought.

He was in there. She knew he was, she'd called ahead. Krillin answered, and for him to confirm Yamcha's whereabouts meant that he was definitely here—quite often when Krillin claimed Yamcha _wasn't_ at Kame House, he was here. Other times, the ex-monk would secretly tell her anyway and then beg her not to let Yamcha know of the small betrayal, simply to spare himself a nasty flare of her temper.

_I hope I don't still look tired..._ the thought shot through her mind like a flaming arrow, and self consciously, Bulma found herself turning to peer at her reflection within the glass. It was only faint and distorted by glare, but as she drew closer with a squint, the streak of colour transformed into a beautiful woman. Slender brows furrowed to the image she saw, and with a slight grimace of distaste, took gentle fingers to sweep the faint circles about her eyes. It wasn't half as bad as Vegeta's had been this morning, but now coming up on ten thirty, she groaned a little to see darkness looming beneath a dulled gaze. The side of her nose crinkled in disapproval as she studied her reflection carefully, lightly licking her fingertip to see if there was any chance she didn't blend the concealer well enough, but to little avail.

After a good minute of nitpicking, a tussle given to perkier locks and red headband straightened, she stepped back with a light huff, reviewing her outfit as hands settled on hips. Red halter top, silver bangles, silver hoop earrings, low riding bleached jeans with some wear and tear, topped with a gold coin belt and finished off with red flats. A tiny smile bubbled up as she picked a hair from her top, and nodded at herself.

"Well, Bulma, you know to throw a good outfit together. Casual, tidy, not too suggestive, and get some sun on your arms while you're out." She leant forward to the reflection with a secretive smirk, and cupping a hand over her mouth, whispered, "I'll buy you a mochaccino frappe on the way home..." and with a wink, straightened to steel herself with a steadying breath, and then turned to start toward the house, tracing the shadow of a towering palm tree.

But the closer each step took her—the more of the familiar voices she heard within—a knot began to tighten in her gut. A nervous frown swept her, and she swallowed. _We're really going to need that frappe._

What little tufts of grass there were crunched lightly underfoot as she ran a hand along the pink panel-board, and casting a wary glance upward at the bold letters that marked this house, she felt each one like an eye to judge her, looking down in silence to condemn her intent. Such fond memories this place held, and she knew that a few of them would be crushed today and scattered to the sea breeze, purely because she had outgrown them. She barely registered setting foot upon the welcoming white step of the front door, and as cerulean eyes lowered to face it head on, something about the place seemed less inviting than before. How many times she had barged in without even a knock, never needing to announce herself, crossing this threshold with ease of mind and purpose?

It seemed so suddenly to be a strange place, foreign and leaving her unsure of her welcome, if only for what she'd come to do.

Cringing a little, she bit her tongue and ran a friendly greeting through her head in rehearsal, and with some courage, brought knuckles up to give a quick and impersonal rapping. She could only hope her voice didn't crack.

"Hey, in there! Anybody alive?" immediately, the heiress winced for the sound, thinking it shrill and intrusive. She hid the waver of nerves well enough though, and without awaiting response, forced a small smile, ready. Pulling the sheer door aside, she'd hover in the doorway to poke her head in, as was the usual habit when she came calling.

"Hey, it's Bulma!" came the familiar tone of Krillin from by the television, almost drowned out by the sound of aerobics girls as they unknowingly seduced an old pervert.

The wave of a glass pitcher drew her eye toward the old Master Roshi, and the old hermit gave a cheerful, though understandably distracted, croak. "Hey, what's shakin'?" The briefest flash of dark shades was sent her way, with a grin missing a tooth and half hidden by beard. "Long time, no see!"

She could almost feel the eyes behind those sunglasses roaming her chest, but just as Krillin turned a smile to her over the back of their couch, Bulma felt her visit become a little easier and relief quickly overcame any irritation for the lecherous master. Exhaling a breath she didn't know she'd held, she was quick to wave, wiggling her fingers and shifting weight to one leg. Maybe she was just being paranoid—she was overtired, that was all... But still, she knew it would be them who bore the brunt of Yamcha's mood, whatever it would be, when she left. She could avoid that awkward tension as the others asked questions and offered consolations and reasons to stick at it, but it was going to be a good amount of time before she could face her friends without feeling embarrassed or slightly guilty for it.

"Hey." she offered again, stepping inward with care not to trip over the old woven mat. That thing was the bane of high heels, and a lesson she'd learnt by heart. It almost hurt her cheeks, schooling her features into something so pleasant when there was nothing to drive it. Where normally her smile came easily, she could feel the muscles teetering on spasms now that she forced it and it made her wonder how false it looked. Her brows rose alongside a light-hearted shrug, and perhaps to prolong the inevitable, she forced some small talk.

"So, you got your glasses back in one piece, I see!" the hint of laughter followed it, but even as it slipped out, her eyes scanned the room for any sign of Yamcha, fingers twitching at her sides. Krillin was wearing his uniform, and catching a glimpse of the orange even from where he sat, she could easily guess they'd not long gotten up. That was good—Yamcha wouldn't be all riled up yet, then.

Shifting some to cross arms over the top of the purple couch and peer over at her, Krillin was quick to grimace, a light frown sweeping him as he sent a somewhat sarcastic look her way.

"Oh yeah, he missed them so much he spent the rest of the day having a reading marathon." he mused nasally, but was quick to lighten from it, gesturing a thumb upwards. "Yamcha's upstairs getting changed... And hey, don't take this the wrong way Bulma, but maybe it'd be better if you don't drag him off all the time, from now on. We need all the training we can get going up against these Androids..."

She must've blanched, because Krillin's slightly cautious mannerism suddenly turned into a bemused tilt of his head. The lowest of the pigmented dots on his forehead were stolen by a crease as his brows rose high, and though Bulma didn't realise how it looked, her arms flew to be defensively crossed under her bust. Old Roshi, at least, seemed taken enough with the television for the moment and for that Bulma was thankful. She really didn't need this to turn into a big deal. Not now... things were hard enough for everyone as it sat.

"Ooh, Krillin, look at 'em go! Heh heh!" though the old hermit brought the glass to hover in front of his white beard, his mirthful commentary kept it at bay as he tugged lightly at his tropical shirt. "Bend, Ladies! Heh he heh!"

His student was more interested in what was troubling his old friend however, and with brows suddenly furrowing in concern, he rose from his seat a little in query to set one foot on the floor. "Bulma, are you feeling okay? You're looking kinda pale... are you sick, or something?"

Her breath hitched in her throat, and her mouth moved to stutter a cheap excuse, but as she stood there Bulma felt the claws of nervousness digging into her heart. A pulse ran up her spine and all of a sudden, running back out to the plane and taking off without another word seemed like a very appealing idea. She swallowed dryly, shaky hands smoothing the red fabric of her top, and just before her voice came cracked, Roshi called out again to distract.

"Krillin! Sit down, your head is catching the sun!" he waved a wiry arm at him then, motioning for the ex-monk to comply, and gestured his glass at the screen. "You're casting glare all over my girls!"

Blue curls and bald head alike whipped toward the sound, and privately, Bulma caught the flash within those sunglasses. She knew in that instant the old man's gaze was upon her, though not for perverted reasons. The Heiress blinked a few times, almost in shock, as she realised what he was doing—he was giving her the opportunity she needed to get upstairs, without Krillin making things more difficult than necessary. The old Turtle Hermit, it seemed, had already seen straight through her the second she'd stepped foot through the door. Bulma wondered how he could've known; he had barely looked at her, and everyone knew how single-mindedly he focussed upon the fitness channel... or at least, as now was apparent, how much he _seemed_ to be focussed on it. Silently, Bulma found an odd new respect for the old man, and made a mental note of letting a few future ogglings slide.

The corners of her lips flirted upwards in a thankful smile, and with a light nod, she moved quickly toward the stairs. "Won't be long!" she called back with a falsely chipper tone, and Krillin was left to watch in slight confusion as he turned to see Bulma bounding up the steps.

He frowned a little for it, and feeling he'd missed something as he settled back down onto the couch, lifted a brow toward his Master. "Hey, did she seem... _off_ to you?"

But Roshi was already fixated upon the television by the time his question came, humming to himself in order to brush it off. A swig of beer taken, and the crafty old hermit tilted his sunglasses with another cackle, content that his work was done. "Heh he heh! One and two, and kick, and two! Lift those leg-warmers, baby!"

Atop the stairs now, clearing the last step and not stopping until outstretched palms found the opposite wall, Bulma leaned there mortified. Pressing her front to the plaster, she let her cheek rest against it, and cerulean eyes shut tightly—it was cool where her skin touched it, and she realised how flustered she must've been. A blush burned upon her nose and she could tell it wasn't getting any lighter for her trouble. She cringed to herself, and gorgeous features twisted into a pained frown as her fingers curled weakly.

This was harder than she'd expected. Gods above, it was tearing her apart, and it hadn't even begun—talking herself through it all in the lonely morning hours, running the logic through her mind as the sun rose into the sky, thinking of what to say to him... it all seemed so straightforward, then. The little details would be her undoing—if just stepping through the door and facing the others had done so much to unnerve her already, Yamcha's face would see her come apart. Bulma could already see the light in his eyes dimming, his grin faltering upon hearing her tone, the crinkle of his brow as he noted her tired eyes.

But then, she knew within herself that she still cared deeply for him... this was the first time she was ever going to break up with him without anger to fuel it and numb her thereafter. This was like going through heart surgery without anaesthesia; life changing and agonising.

A shaky sigh left her, and in sheer desperation, Bulma forced her mind backwards. All the women he'd flirted with over the years, all the times he had been late, how long she'd spent waiting on him, how many times he had blown her off. How immature he could be; a boy when she needed a man. How everything was a joke. How when he made mistakes, he covered them in anger and humiliation to point the blame elsewhere. How when she did the same, he would point them out all too quickly, laying them back at her feet without the luxury of patience or support.

_...How I just can't trust him when I'm not there; _her eyes opened slowly to stare at her fingernails as they dug into the wall, renewed in their determination. _He's great when I'm with him and it's all laughs, but I don't even know who he is while I'm not around. Not anymore..._

"This is why we're here... This is for the best..." she breathed to herself quietly, reassuringly, and cautiously Bulma would push away from the wall with a roll of bare shoulders, as if gearing up to fight him rather than break things off. "...Mochaccino frappe..."

She turned, and swift steps took her down the hall as a bangled hand rose to run fingers through curled blue locks. _Like a bandaid, Bulma, quicker the better._ She didn't even stop to knock when she came upon his door, knowing very well which room he used when he stayed here—which room _they_ had used, more times than she could count. It opened smoothly as she pushed her way in, and the Heiress turned immediately to close it, avoiding the glimpse of him for as long as was possible. Something of her resolve shattered then, as she pressed a hand to the door securely, when his surprised voice rang out behind her.

"...Bulma? What're you doing here?"

It was so innocent to her ear; so awkward and unsure, and yet light and happy to see her. Damn him. It was worming its way down her spine and settling in her stomach with warmth. She had to stop it before it disarmed her. She would not let him talk her around, not this time. It had to be done, and biting the bullet, Bulma grit her teeth and refused to look back at him. All mental rehearsal of easing into things calmly went out the window in lieu of self preservation, and though it pained her to do it, she gave her answer evenly.

"Yamcha, I'm here to talk to you about something very important, and I need you to hear me out and support my decision, okay?" It was slightly more defensive than she'd liked, but at least there was no mincing of words.

"W—What?" she flinched to the sound of it, and she swore she heard it echo. "Bulma, what are you talking about? What decision?" she heard him shift behind her, and suddenly his tone was nervous. "O-oh man, this isn't about... that new gym I joined, is it? Because I told you, I didn't _know_ there was a dance class next door!"

Turning slowly with a sigh, Bulma finally allowed herself to glance back at him, though as cerulean eyes fell upon her soon to be ex-boyfriend, she regretted it immediately. Sitting on the edge of his bed upon tussled sheets, the bandit was half-way through getting changed into his own orange uniform; baggy pants hosted his blue undershirt scrunched in his lap, and the sculpted muscle of his chest winked back at her in the morning sun from the window. Strong hands toyed idly with the fabric, and she cursed herself for not heeding Krillin—she should've just waited for him outside or something. At least then he'd be _dressed_.

Biting her bottom lip once again, she struggled with herself, tugging nervously at keepers of her jeans and tracing her belt buckle with a finger. Despite what she'd come to do, Bulma was painfully aware—as that delicious athletic frame lay so temptingly gropable before her—that it had been a while since they had made love. A long while. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to give it another week... you know, that was probably it, she was just missing the intimacy. Break-up sex was meant to be some of the best, right? Just this once, just one last time...

No, that would just make it even harder...

_Harder... _Her eyes flicked downward, and her breathing became shallow as the word boomed in her head. She could feel a bead of sweat running down the back of her neck, but for the life of her, she could only imagine it to be his finger sweeping softly against her skin... imagining it tracing the arch of her back, trailing a line of fire down her spine... deftly undoing her bra, with such ease, and... and...

"...Bulma?"

Something snapped in her, tearing a gasp from her lips, and horror swam through wide eyes as a fierce panic gripped her. "I can't do this...!" she squeaked, as a frantic hand shot for the door handle, jiggling it until the damn thing opened.

"Bulma! Do what? ...Bulma!"

She heard the bed shift behind her, knowing that he had stood, and the door swung wide without care as she threw it aside to flee. Bulma winced as it hit the wall, no doubt leaving a mark where the handle met plaster, and tore down the stairs with all haste as the first tears glossed her vision—footsteps chased her down, quick on her heels, and she was distantly aware of a stabbing pain as Yamcha called after her to stop.

Her body moved of its own accord, feet hitting the ground swiftly as a sob hitched in her throat. Krillin stood as she ran past, the blurred look of concern and surprise he wore only pushing her faster as Roshi's arm shot out to grab his pant leg, shaking his head in silence. She tripped over the mat, palms coming up to brace her as the screen door slammed open with a jarring impact, and the soft sand stole her footing completely as she stumbled blindly outward.

Legs buckled under her and Bulma fell to kneel in front of the pink house she knew so well, ragged breath greedily took up the fresh air, sucking it through her fingers as her hand hovered over her mouth. Her stomach lurched within her, and she swore she could've gagged, locks of blue whipping to the shake of her head. She heard his feet heavy through the lounge room, bare as one hit the white step and his hand shot out to abuse the screen door again, and sand kicked up behind her. Warmth enveloped her shoulders, a firm and gentle grip design to restrain and soothe; capture her and put her back into a spell of submission as he knelt beside her.

"Bulma, what the hell has gotten into you?" brows knitted together with disapproval and worry, his eyes tracing her features as if looking for disease, or something that could ease the symptom.

Glassed cerulean rose to meet them, weary, and the Heiress' hand fell away as she stared, bereft of expression. Her gaze traced the scars upon his visage, and her fingers rose to follow them absently, distant and somehow removed in her study. She could see the confusion about him. He wore his heart on his sleeve, and it was easy to read those boyish features, even when the lines of his face hardened into some semblance of maturity.

A sombre silence settled between them then, and with a sigh, she let her head loll to one side as long lashes closed. It was now or never—she was cornered, and broken, and there was no avoiding it now.

"Yamcha..." she whispered hoarsely, clearing her throat to correct it when she continued. "...I'm... breaking up with you."

She didn't open her eyes to see his reaction. She didn't want to see it.

_I should've just done this over the phone; _she thought quickly, but Bulma knew better. He would've just come around anyway, trying to figure out what he'd done wrong and to convince her otherwise.

The bandit stared at her, lost for words as hers lingered in the salty air between them. His gaze wavered over her face and he noted the tired look she wore, each moment passing to draw his head further away as if she was out of focus. She may as well have been a blur of colour, because this just wasn't like his Bulma—no lead up argument? No twenty missed calls and angry messages? No accusations? This was unreal, and more than that it was unexpected, and his mind simply couldn't process it that quickly. For a moment he considered the possibility that he'd slept in, and was having some weird nightmare...

On some level, it terrified him, because somewhere in the back of his mind, a realisation bloomed—he had known this was coming. He hadn't known when, or why, but somehow, it was there.

Their relationship had finally hit its wall.

His body jerked away from her then, his hands torn away as if her flesh would burn his own, and with haste he stood over her to wear a mixture of pain and anger. Scarred jaw clenched as words danced across his tongue, steadily exhaling through his nose like the snort of a bull about to charge, and idle hands flexed in and out of fists at his sides.

He did not care for the wall, he decided. No, if she truly loved him, they would find a way to climb it.

"Why are you doing this, Bulma?" it came quietly enough, though it was far from calm, peppered with denial and determination as he frowned down at her. It was rhetorical, and she knew that when he shook his head, casting a glare to the horizon as his mouth drew thin. "...This is about what Goku said, isn't it? How we should settle down... start a family..."

Kneeling still, she shook her head, perky wisps of blue swaying to the motion as Bulma stared at the sand below. "It's not just that, Yamcha... I've been thinking about a lot of things. I just... I can't keep pretending this is something that it's not, you know?" she sniffled some, settling now that it finally came out, and rubbed at her nose gingerly. "You know just as much as I do that we've got our fair share of things to work through. These next three years are gonna be hard on everyone, and trying to figure out what we're supposed to be doing isn't going to help."

He bit his tongue, muscles flexing as his hands rose to the back of his neck, thick fingers curling into the long mane of black to tug. It was all he could do to keep focus on what she was saying, bending his knees briefly before hastily turning to take a step away, many things running wild through his head. Impatient, he spun on his heel just as quickly, gesturing roughly to her with a frustrated look.

"Then we can wait three years, and sort it out then! Damn it, Bulma...!" his hand retracted and his head jerked away again, as if restraining the urge to punch something. She just didn't get it, sometimes. He seethed an irritated sigh and winced, cursing himself for how he was handling this, but it wasn't as if she was making things any easier. His hand rose to pinch the bridge of his nose as his eyes squeezed shut, and biting back on knee-jerk responses, strained himself to give a softer tone.

"Bulma, we've been on and off for years. I know we've got our problems, but who hasn't?" His hand fell away limply, and tilting his head back, he cast a pensive gaze to the skies above. "We fight, we've had our breakups... Hell, Bulma, we got through my _death_. That's not exactly something most people have to deal with, but we did it. You're the one that held the press release that saved my career! If you hadn't have played it off like bad injuries instead, I could never have had my comeback with the Titans... How the hell do you explain coming back from the dead to baseball fans? It was on the news, there was a stadium vigil!"

He threw his hands up weakly in a surrender, letting them fall to lightly hit his thighs, and turning back to her he gave a helpless look. "Bulma, you lied to thousands of people on national television, doing the impossible, just so I'd have something normal to come back to... Ask anybody you want to, but that's love right there. Since you guys wished me back, I've been thinking about a lot of things too, and sure, with these Androids and everything, waiting until afterwards is probably a good idea... But what Goku said really hit me that day, and I realised..."

Black hair swayed behind his he shook his head, glancing upwards as if to read the words off a cloud. "He's right." a saddened grimace swept him as his eyes fell to the sand between them. "I've been wasting a great thing, and... and it's time I started stepping up, you know? I... want to change for you. Give you what you deserve... and that's a ring, Bulma, I mean it." he sought her gaze, holding it, and his his eyes was something sorry. "I'm ready."

Tired eyes stared up at him listlessly, and beneath pale skin, Bulma felt her heart breaking. How long had she waited to hear those words from him? ...There were nights when, alone in her bed and hours spent waiting for his promised call, she'd cried herself to sleep wondering what blonde had caught his eye. Somewhere in her, a voice cried out, too little too late; that those nights would still occur, waiting for him to come home as post-victory drinks drew out far longer than they should, and that a ring on her finger would only double the pain. Years could go by before it happened again... but settled deep into the pit of her stomach, like acid burning a hole in her, the doubt would always be there. The fact remained. It _would_ happen again.

If _she_ let it.

Fresh tears prickled her vision for that, floating upon her lashes like little crystals, and without a word her gaze fell from his. A tiny and cynical smile flashed across her quivering lip, and her head hung low. Her voice was nowhere to be found within an aching throat, though a thousand things bubbled up at once to drag out something foreign; a rasped and broken tone she didn't believe was hers.

"Yamcha... three years waiting is a long time." her fingers curled into the sand, taking some into her palm and tilting it to let them slide free again, counting the grains like coming days. "How do you know you won't change your mind? What if most of us really do die? ...There are so many things that are going to change, all at once, and I just don't know if I can handle all of that and this, too. I'm not even sure I believe in marriage anymore... I mean look at every guy who put it off for years, and then turn around and get married to some twenty year old bimbo after a few months..." she trailed off into a sigh, giving an exhausted grimace, and let her head tilt back to look up at him, unsure of what she'd find. "Not... that I mean it like the way that sounds... but..."

The lines of his face set into a finite expression, the sea breeze catching their hair in a gentle caress as the waves lapped lightly upon the shore. Just as she'd imagined, his eyes lost their shine, growing dull and defeated as he shut down to hide the hurt. He wore a haunted sort of expression, deadpan yet painted with the ghost of distant sadness, and a weak shrug came of him.

"Bulma." he offered flatly, letting a slow blink pass over him. "We've been together since we were young. You _know_ me. You either want to marry me or you don't."

The Heiress let her attention fall away to study the grooves she'd left in the sand, and she knew this was it—his heart was in her hand, as fragile as glass, and now was the time to see it shatter. She lingered on it still, going back over everything that had happened. He'd resent her for this, she knew, but it was better than a lifetime of it growing like mould between the cracks of a broken marriage until they died bitter and unfulfilled. She knew it, and in time, he would come to realise it too.

Slowly she came to stand, dusting the sand from her jeans as she did so, and gave him a saddened smile as she stepped forward to close the distance. Her hand rose to the cross-shaped scar on his cheek, running her thumb over it gently, and prayed silently that one day soon, he'd forgive her.

"I'm sorry, Yamcha..." it was no more than a whisper between them, as she leant forward to place a chaste kiss—the very last one—to his lips. "But, I don't... and neither do you."

He stood frozen there with an empty glaze to his eyes as she slipped past him with slow steps, letting her hand fondly sweep his jaw until her touch left him entirely. She felt his gaze follow her as she padded softly back toward her plane. She heard his bare feet shuffle back through the sand, and she very nearly felt the harsh slam of that poor screen door.

Though the bandit would watch her climb back into the vehicle from afar, silently pleading that she would not leave him like this as the whirling hum of the engines grew louder, he knew that she would not change her mind.

And as Bulma sped off alone into the open skies once more, caught in some fantasy of blissful flight, instead of envious within her machine, she felt free.

**A/N:**

**I wasn't particularly fond of Yamcha by the time DBZ happened, by any stretch, but Bulma certainly was. So, no Yamcha bashing for me. Really, I don't like Yamcha bashing in general. I just find it really hard to believe, having grown up with him in Dragonball.**

**To be honest, I quite liked Yamcha/Bulma throughout Dragonball. I like Vegeta/Bulma more, obviously, but still, he's not that bad a guy. Sure, it didn't work out and he turned into a bit of a playboy, but realistically, he's no mass murdering ex-planetary pirate with emotional constipation. (and lets face it, we all know what Bulma can be like on a bad day.)**

**On the level, I think Yamcha deserves a little more credit than he's often given.**

**So, super tired now, and chapter two down.**

**Onwards to Glory!**


	3. Second Opinions aren't Cures

**A/N: I grew up with Bulma's mother having the fan coined name of Bunny, but due to Toriyama's comment concerning the fact that he would name her something like 'Panties' or 'Panti' to follow the underwear pun, I've opted to go with 'Pansy' instead.**

Chapter 3: **Second Opinions aren't Cures**

It was really hard to see the silver lining from the living room floor.

Three days had passed now since her—what she had been telling herself was inevitable—breakup with Yamcha. Right from the morning she decided to call it quits, Bulma had found herself on a fast tracked road trip of tears to misery, but not without pit stops in self loathing, anger, and of course the popular tourist trap of loneliness which was famed for its comfort foods.

The mochaccino frappe had proved to be the unfortunate start to a series of gluttonous events that, to the best of Bulma's ability, had been justified as 'spoiling herself with a little something' and 'was not going to become a habit'. Eighteen punnets of strawberries had been sacrificed to the god of temporary consolations; one tub of chocolate ice cream, three bagels, a muffin, one half finished packet of donuts, and at present, a silver sachet of frosting pilfered from a box of cake mix. She didn't have the heart or energy to actually make the cake herself, and with her mother out, the heiress had now settled into the lowest point of snacking possible.

Sprawled on the plush cream carpet, hidden from the light of day with curtains drawn, Bulma lay bathed in the light glow of the television to cuddle a pillow beneath her chin and let her elbows be propped lazily upon the floor. The perky afro style had been left to dwindle back into languid curls, neglected, as was her sense of fashion—in her world, black tank tops only fit to sleep in and hideously gray and baggy track pants were all the rage. Her finger dived into the sachet again, collecting a dollop of sweet white satisfaction, and absently bringing it to her lips she would suck the digit clean. Wiping the finger some on the pillow case, cerulean eyes followed the people on-screen with bored fixation, numb as she took in everything that self-proclaimed experts had to tell her.

The gorgeous results of plastic surgery and giant egos flickered across the giant screen like gods upon a pedestal, passing judgement on the pitiable mortals who watched them as a paid studio audience worshipped with applause and well timed laughter. Red couches, a book sitting upright on a tiny table and two pompous hosts discussing a world they obviously didn't take personal part in.

Bulma glanced to the fake-tanned visage of one as she spoke, swirling frosting about her tongue with disinterest as she did so.

"I still don't understand why so many people want to rush into marriage, Tollin." the busty host crossed a long leg over her knee, and the heiress thought it a miracle the woman didn't flash a glimpse of what was under the shortest cocktail dress ever designed.

"They don't, Belle." came the well rehearsed answer of a clearly gay man, folded hands on his thigh as he perfectly mirrored the position of the woman sitting adjacent.

Bulma gave a light snort, rolling her eyes and shoving her finger back into the sachet—_I'm guessing the book is his_.

"No man really wants to get married before their mid-thirties, and if he does, it's a lie or a poorly timed impulse." he explained confidently, as if this was breaking news to the world. "If they do get married, give it a year and I guarantee all they're going to be thinking about is how many freedoms they've given up, and all the women they miss out on. All these opportunities will seem to pop up in their lives; beautiful girls making flirtatious small talk at the store. Serendipity strikes again and as you jog through the park, there's a brunette making eyes at you. She throws a frisbee to her dog, you run across its path, and all of a sudden you're scratching this retriever's belly. Badda bing, badda boom, the perfect meeting for a whirlwind romance... or it would be, until that ring on your finger catches your eye as the sun hits it."

With a bitter grimace, the heiress would wave a frosting covered finger at the screen, wobbling her head in a haughty fashion as blue curls swayed behind. A snide impression of the man hissed out, venomous yet droll. "And that, Belle, is why guys have back pockets. Slip the ring in, _Badda bing badda boom_, and here's a pro tip—it makes for a great excuse not to call back when she picks your jeans up off the floor and finds it!"

But the tittering laughter of the host rang out all the same. "Oh come on, Tollin, you're making it sound like a wedding band is a magnet for infidelity here!"

"Not that he'd know..." Bulma mused cynically, licking her finger as a superior gaze was focussed upon the silvery packet. "Gay marriage is still illegal outside Central City."

"No, no... I'm not saying that at all." The author waved his hand dismissively, and the flick of his wrist only confirmed Bulma's suspicions of homosexuality further. "Those are just a few examples and even if the guy stays faithful, the point is still there—they notice these little things, all of a sudden. Not to say that they appear only to married guys, no way, the truth is that they were happening all along... But it's all about the driving force behind it. Its the 'what about me' factor at play."

A rolling sigh escaped her, and almost dreading what was to come, the heiress let herself collapse limply into the soft comfort of the pillow as she muttered, voice muffled. "Oh, here we go..."

"Those opportunities were always there, they just never took much notice of them until they couldn't yield a reward. They can have such a great thing going with their spouse, but you see, it's like a child and that cookie jar they can't touch—when they aren't allowed to have it, they only want it more."

The bimbo gave that shallow laugh again, pulling a face that might've implied slight shock if not for the ridiculous amounts of botox that stifled it. "All the poor married guys in our audience are going to get an earful when they get home, thanks to you!"

"Well, it's not just the married ones! The fact that these guys rushed into marriage in the first place only proves that further."

Bulma gasped sarcastically, face still buried in the pillow. "Shock and horror." Somehow, she just couldn't find the enthusiasm to watch anymore, resigning herself to audio only and enjoying the darkness that had stolen her vision.

"How so?" the clueless bitch replied on cue.

"In the heat of the moment, a guy's mind works toward the greatest benefit. It sorts out a path to the maximum reward, and without weighing the cons against the pros, the guy goes in full steam ahead to get to the gold. Ladies, before he wanted to marry you, _you_ were that beautiful opportunity that piqued his interest!"

She almost yelled, anger still muffled by the soft folds as the sachet was hatefully crumpled by a fist. "I was his _only_ 'opportunity'! He couldn't even _talk_ to pretty girls before me!"

_Yeah, that didn't last long, did it, Bulma?_

"You were that girl in the park or at the store, and out of the many little meetings and sly winking glances, you were the one he favoured most and chose to chase... but like him, you had your opportunities too! The minute something else takes your eye, expect the proposal as soon as he catches wind of it, because that's his way of bumping up the stakes."

From her well of apathy, Bulma's ears perked up. Blue curls suddenly whipped as her head snapped upwards, cerulean eyes staring wide at the screen as a strange epiphany hit home, and in amongst all the bullshit of prime-time talk shows, she found a nugget of intrigue. It was like a bolt of lightning had hit her, paralysing her there for a moment, before in a maddened and desperate flurry of movement the heiress found herself scurrying closer.

With a knowing chuckle, the man continued. "He's top dog again, and while you're drooling over that diamond ring, Kapow! He has you in the palm of his hand, and the rewards are great... He's in paradise, and you're serving the drinks."

Tossing the pillow and her frosting aside, she crawled up toward the television, kneeling upwards and placing palms to the screen, frantic. "No, no, no! Go back! What did you just say? Go back!" Light smacks were given urgingly to the screen, as if trying to draw attention to herself.

To her chagrin, the bimbo host just plowed onward, completely ignoring her pleas. "Well, that doesn't sound all that bad! I mean, sure, no girl wants to be waiting on a guy hand and foot, but that's why marriage is forever. Things settle themselves down, don't they?"

"Of course they do, Belle. And there's the rub—the catch is that _he_ never thought about the fact that it does last _forever_. Even in paradise, there's only so much you can do before its just the same old thing, and then not only are you bored..."

The man's gaze turned toward the screen, and Bulma cocked her head back to the unexpected eye contact. It was as if he knew she was there, and for it, he gave a terrible grin.

"...You're trapped, and no prisoner spends their days thinking about how wonderful their cage is, do they? Here's my advice to you Ladies watching... find yourself a guy who knows what it feels like to be boxed in. If he ever asks you to marry him? It's real. There's no way in hell he's going back into a cage, so you can rest easy knowing you're not a conquest, but a person they love. Don't let men turn you into their prison, because all they'll do is try to break the bars."

And then the face was gone, camera panning back to the bimbo as she gestured to the book. "Okay! You can find more of Doctor Tollin's advice in his new book, _Only Fools Rush In_, which launches today! For your own copy, you can find it at our website on sale this week for..."

As Bulma fell back to sit, zoning out now as the screen proudly showed the front cover, her mind was racing around trying to make sense of the lightbulb that had appeared. Slender brows furrowed as something the author had said echoed through her head, almost impossible to ignore, and she let her gaze wander aimlessly over the carpet.

_The minute something else takes your eye, expect the proposal as soon as he catches wind of it, because that's his way of bumping up the stakes. _

Frowning to herself now, the heiress shook her head, taken aback at the strange and creeping sense of deja vu. "Well, sure, there's the Androids, but he said he would wait to sort things out afterwards, even before the marriage thing came up... So that makes no sense, I don't even have anything else holding my attention. Nothing that would make me break it off, anyway..."

Pondering on it, she sent a pensive glance toward the abandoned silver sachet, suddenly not seeing the appeal of its contents. But a strange haze of doubtfulness clouded her then, and with a quizzical squint, she would question it.

"...Do I?"

Distantly, she heard a door shut, and the rustle of plastic and hard paper alongside a jingle of keys. Turning her attention toward it, Bulma would lift herself up lazily, stretching with an arch of her back and wandering slowly toward the kitchen as her mother appeared from the next room. The blonde was heavily laden with bags—moreso than her slight frame would suggest she had the strength to carry—and as Bulma had expected, made a beeline for the kitchen table to place her burden down, offering a chipper greeting as she passed through the archway.

"Morning, Bulma! I got you some more strawberries, but I forgot what brand of cigarettes you like so I just went with what your father gets, okay?" with a heave then, the kitchen table was unceremoniously covered with bagged goods, and poking through a couple of the plastic ones her mother would pilfer out the packet and place it aside with a pat. Pansy breathed a slight sigh of relief, lightly tossing her keys toward a glass bowl and taking to adjusting her bustline, pulling the youthful tube top upwards. "Warm out there today! ...and why is it so dark in here?"

Offering sly perusal of the bags to see what else her mother had bought, the heiress brought a thumb to her lip and began to chew the nail, musing distractedly. "Hey, Mom. I drew all the curtains because... I had a headache." A tiny white lie.

"Hey is for horses, Bulma." Before sorting any of her shopping, she would pause with comforting and motherly concern, soft voiced and considerate as she planted hands upon the table. "How're you doing today, Sweetie? You feeling any better?" The white lie was transparent.

Shifting languidly around the table to reach for her cigarettes, knowing full well her mother could see her depression, Bulma gave a half hearted shrug and pursed her lips.

"More or less, Mom... I mean, I've been worse. I guess I'm just taking a few days to let it all sink in and process that I made the right decision..." she sighed a little, brows furrowed as she took to picking the plastic film and unwrapping it. "I still care about him and I hate having to do this to him, you know? It hurts... But, gotta be cruel to be kind sometimes, right?" she flashed a nervous grin, though it faded quickly.

"I know, Sweetie, I do... But it's still a shame. He really is a such a nice boy, I hope you'll still be good friends..." offering a slight pout at that, the blonde would set about sorting through her shopping, rustling through plastic methodically. "But you'll be okay. My gorgeous baby girl will find her Mister Right in no time, you'll see." a sneaky, almost knowing smile curved Pansy's lips, and she gave a stifled giggle.

As Bulma pulled a cigarette free, raising it slowly, she gave a thoughtful hum to that and eyed her mother warily. "...Mom? Can I ask you a question?"

"Only if you don't light that smoke inside." came the reply, her nagging thinly disguised by the mirthful tone used as she pulled a box of detergent free of the bag.

Rolling her eyes, the cigarette would be tapped idly to the top of the packet, and passing over it the heiress continued. "I was watching that Chime with Belle show earlier, and—"

"Oh, I love that show!" the blonde chirped suddenly, distracted by it. "She always looks so lovely, you'd suit short hair like that too, Bulma!"

"Mom!" Bulma frowned with a huff, jerking her leg in light mimicry of an impatient stomp.

Pansy gave an absent-minded hum, brows rising as to what was wrong, and realised her interruption—her daughter had often complained of the habit she had of going off on tangents. Bashfully, she smiled and took to patting her hair, making sure the clips were still in place. "Sorry, Sweetie. What were you saying?"

Bulma peered at her incredulously for a moment, as if to be sure she was paying attention, and when no further interruption seemed apparent, she gave a silent sigh. "I was _going_ to ask you if you'd noticed anything I've been doing lately that Yamcha might... I don't know..." her lips drew thin and cerulean eyes glanced upward in search of the right way to say it, a roll of her shoulders given as she went out on a limb. "...Feel threatened by, or something?"

Pansy began collecting a few things in her arms as she thought about this, tilting her head to one side as blonde brows furrowed, pensive. "I'm not really sure, Bulma... Everybody's been so busy lately, since that future boy appeared." she mused unhelpfully, turning with a click of high heels to walk toward the fridge.

Glancing back over her shoulder as she opened the glass-front door, the blonde would perk up suddenly. "You know, your father used to get into a funny mood when we had that young gardener around to help me, back when we expanded the atrium. Maybe it's like that—you have been helping your father out quite a bit lately, what with that new vehicle line and fixing up all Vegeta's toys... Oh! Silly me, I forgot the butter!"

The surge of deja vu suddenly found purchase, and with cerulean eyes snapping toward the kitchen window, Bulma found herself gaping a little at what came together in her mind. _Vegeta_. "You don't think... he was actually getting jealous of Vegeta, or anything?" she almost stuttered it for how ridiculous it was, blinking rapidly. "The guy is a nutjob, Mom! Why would Yamcha think _Vegeta_, of all people, would be more important to me than he is? I mean yeah, he's pretty high maintenance and all, but come on! We're only putting up with him because he's gonna help fight the Androids!"

"Well, Sweetie, you did tell him about that dream you had." the blonde offered tactlessly, returning to the table to collect more perishables. She'd give a nod toward the window, implying the gravity capsule beyond. "I don't blame you for wanting to kiss a handsome Prince, Bulma, especially that stud of a man outside..." she paused enough to suck a wanting breath through her teeth, "...but I don't think Yamcha would appreciate that thought as much as I do."

Her legs threatened to buckle beneath her as she was reminded of it, and caught between that and the awkward—and openly voiced—attraction her mother had for the Saiyan, snapped defensively with a look of abject horror.

"That was _just _some stupid _dream_, Mom! It didn't mean I _want_ to kiss him! He was totally different in my head!" the heiress busied herself with new fretting, smacking a palm to her forehead in a fit of pique as she began to pace. "That idiot! What if he thinks I broke up with him because of Vegeta? What if he thinks I broke up with him _for_ Vegeta?! Oh, no...!" she sulked helplessly, her knees bending as if she strained to carry something heavy—well, it was a heavy burden to think about—and feeling a little dizzy for the trouble, turned to lean her weight upon the countertop; cigarettes discarded carelessly.

Blue curls fell about her face limply as Bulma hung her head in shame and despair, hands climbing to cover her face. Things were just going from bad to worse, and as if breaking it off wasn't hard enough already, the thought that Yamcha may not even understand the true reasons behind it made her insides twist violently. She shook her head in denial, groaning with despair behind her hands, mortified by the possibilities that could be running through the bandit's head. She hadn't even realised that was what it may look like—True, she and Yamcha's relationship had run its course, but if and when she found the one for her, there was no way in Hell it was going to be Vegeta!

She had to let him know that wasn't the case. She simply had to; one of the reasons she'd broken it off so suddenly with him was because he didn't need any distractions to hold him back. Who knew what kind of mental plagues could be unleashed by the thought that your long time girlfriend, that you still cared for, had left you for a mass murderer when you may only have three more years to live? Especially when that murderer had killed _you_ in the past, along with some of your friends? That could be a person's undoing, left to fester and eat away at their sanity!

Through the chaos of her internal panic, her mother's still chirpy tone rang out as clear as day to calm it, stilling the rippling waters of her mind.

"Oh, Bulma, you and Yamcha have been on and off for nearly fifteen years now, Sweetie. Anybody coming out of a long term relationship like that isn't going to be running off with somebody new straight away, and I'm sure he knows that." gathering up a few empty bags, the blonde would wrap them up around her arm, folding them over to be saved and reused later. She shot her daughter a soft smile. "You both just need a little time to cool down. Give him a call at the end of the week when you've both had time to think it all through, and make sure you're both okay. You're going through an emotional time, Sweetie, just give it a chance to settle and you'll see it will all turn out fine."

Dread filled cerulean eyes peered helplessly through the cracks of her fingertips, and though her worry was still very present, Bulma did feel it lessen some at her mother's soothing. "I hope you're right, Mom..." she mused weakly, somewhat muffled by her hands as with a tired sigh, they slid down her cheeks to cup her chin. "You're making strawberry pancakes tonight, right? Do you think you could bring some up to my room?"

"Sure, Sweetie." her mother purred sweetly as clicking heels carried her toward the pantry, opening the slim door and putting the plastic bags away. "I'm going to start dinner in a minute, too, so go and tell Vegeta his will be ready in about an hour. Those Saiyan boys have such an appetite, don't they?" she giggled airily, obviously not minding the fact that she would be cooking for the equivalent of twelve people. "Do you want any egg rolls with yours, or should I just do some up for him?"

Bulma stared at her as if she'd grown another head, her hands falling limp with shock. She could swear that some things just went straight over her mother's head. "Mom! Were you not paying attention or something? Vegeta will be lucky if I ever talk to him again, after all this!" she frowned darkly, crossing arms beneath her bust in a stubborn manner as she cocked her head back to scoff. "You know, he actually had the nerve the other day to tell me that my _saving his life_ was not only unappreciated, but that from now on he wanted to—and I quote—'wake up in a pool of blood and rubble'? He's a total headcase, Mom!"

With a hand on her hip and a finger hovering over a selection of herbs, as yet undecided on which would be best used, Pansy cooed back with biased affection. "Oh, Bulma, he's probably just embarrassed about the whole thing. You know how proud he is... Maybe he just doesn't want you to worry about him; you did spend the entire night at his bedside, Sweetie."

A small pang of regret trailed her spine for that, and softening a little, Bulma gave a sigh of defeat as her head lolled backward to peer at the ceiling. "It's not that, Mom. He blames me for it, I know he does..." her mind travelled back to the argument they'd had that morning, and his words echoed strongly, even with all that had happened in between. "He told me I had a guilt complex that was making me get in his way, and now that I think about it—not that I'd ever tell him this—but he's right... I think _I_ kinda blame myself, too. I felt like if he died that day, it would be my fault... I even worried about how much fuel he had in space because, in a weird way, I guess I felt like he trusted me with his safety while using our technology. He's made no secret of seeing better ships, you know?"

A sorry grimace passed over her gorgeous features, and listlessly, she rolled her shoulders. "Krillin's told me enough about what Vegeta's been through to know that trust, no matter how small, is a really big thing for him. When he had the accident, that trust was broken, and I don't know why, but I sorta feel like I betrayed him... I know it wasn't my fault or anything, but still..." dejectedly, her gaze fell to the floor, tracing the cracks in the tiles.

Plucking vials of coriander and thyme down, her mother would send a comforting look back over her shoulder, smiling with softness—her daughter had such a kind heart, even if she tried to hide it with her temper, and it was one of the things Pansy adored about her Bulma. "Well, maybe you should have a talk with him, too. He really is a lovely boy, Sweetie, a little rough around the edges but lovely all the same..." she turned back to click back toward the fridge, tilting her head with a light shake, as her admiration continued. "And he tries so hard, Bulma, he's always exhausted when he comes in. You have to give him a little bit of patience; he's bound to have his grumpy moments being so tired and sore."

The heiress gave a harassed groan, slumping forward from the counter to stand and toying with the drawstring of her track pants. "But, Mom, I _have_ been patient with him... It's not just moments, he's like that all the time! How am I supposed to talk to him at all when he wants me to stay away from him?" She lazily snatched the cigarettes from the counter, taking reluctantly slow steps across the kitchen. "I mean, it's not like I want to be his best friend or anything, but don't exactly want to find him dead on the lawn, either... I just wish he'd take better care of himself, you know?"

"Go on, Sweetie. Tell him to have shower and then his dinner will be ready." Pansy took to a cheery hum then, carrying a plethora of foodstuffs to the counter as the fridge door swung closed. "I'll bring yours up to your room when its done, okay?"

"I'm going, Mom..." she relented tiredly, dragging her feet as she crossed onto the carpet and made for the foyer. Idly, and perhaps as a release of frustration, Bulma would bat a leaf of the potted caladium as she passed through, calling back over her shoulder. "No promises on the shower, though."

For the life of her, she would never understand how Saiyans could completely ignore their own body odour after a fierce training session—she'd seen Vegeta sit down to eat still covered in streaks of dried blood, hair matted with sweat, utterly oblivious as to the effect he held on the others' appetites.

_Not that watching him stuff himself like a pig is much better, _the conceded privately, opening the back door to step outside, _Not even Oolong can match him and Goku for that._

Dusk had fallen now to paint the skies above with violent shades, flamelike orange burning across the city skyline as the thin spread clouds blushed pink. Padding softly out into the sepia toned world, Bulma felt the cool grass beneath bare feet to be a refreshing change, lush green blades bending easily underfoot. It made the lonely walk out to the the gravity capsule easier, bathed in dying daylight as it was—it towered high, almost a silhouette as it wrought its shadow across the grounds to creep silently up the side of her house. It was almost a thing of dread, and even now the awful sound of the explosion, with power enough to shake the very ground beneath, echoed distantly in her ears as a foreboding and ever present fear.

Shaking it off with a whip of blue curls, Bulma steeled herself for the Prince's inevitable flash of temper; he didn't like being disturbed at the best of times, let alone by her. Still, she could pass blame along to her mother, she supposed. Within the darkness cast by the massive ship, the heiress came to a stop outside of its door, peering upward and feeling the hum of static energy pull goosebumps up along her arms. Red light poured outward from the port windows, and almost imperceptibly, took critical note of the vibrations to course through the hull. The suspension of the landing gear took the brunt of it, but still, until she could refit the pressure systems as intended, Bulma simply wouldn't be able to rest easy with the Saiyan inside going full tilt.

That thought alone was enough to coax her courage, and reaching forward to open a small box on the side let her hand linger hesitant over the emergency shut off button—after the first incident, she had proposed that this ship be outfitted with an external switch, and despite Vegeta's protests, her father had quickly agreed. The green button was so very tempting, but warring with herself over that final inch, her hand darted to the side to press the smaller red switch instead. Leaning forward, she would speak into the intercom microphone and give him fair warning first.

"Vegeta, my Mom's called you in for food, okay? Pack it in and come have a shower." with an expectant blink, she withdrew her hand quickly to her chest, awaiting the gruff response that was sure to come. She almost rolled her eyes when no response came, though the urge was quickly stifled by concern.

Reluctant now, and nervous for the thought that something had gone wrong, she began to tug on her tank top impatiently. "Oh, come on, Vegeta, answer me..." she whispered to herself, suddenly desperate to hear the sound of his voice as she bounced lightly on her feet, willing it to come.

Almost a full five minutes passed before Bulma could take it no more, and mashing the button a few times to ensure obnoxious beeping alerted the Saiyan inside first, tried again with a frown and tried to seem more annoyed than worried. "Vegeta! Get out here, now! I mean it, buster, I'll shut this thing down if I have to!"

When the beep of a returned line reached her ear, she could only give a long sigh of relief despite the reply, letting herself slump forward to release the built up tension of her concern.

"I heard you the first time, Woman!" came the mechanised transmission from inside, harsh and impatient.

Holding a hand to her head as the light throb of a headache took hold of her temple, the corner of her mouth ticked. Bringing her finger back to the switch, she'd give a tired response, somewhat acidic as Bulma's temperance wore thin. "Then don't ignore me, Vegeta. If I can come out here to tell you dinner is almost ready, the least you can do is acknowledge the message." She let her finger slip down a fraction, but was more than ready to press it again—somehow, she felt an argument coming.

"What do you mean, 'almost ready'? Damn it, Woman, stop wasting my time!" he growled back with a crackle of static through the remedial speaker box. "Come and get me when it _is _ready!"

Letting her head rest against the vibrating metal, Bulma grit her teeth with restraint, pressing down on the button harder than necessary as she seethed a strained reply. "No, Vegeta. You need a shower. By the time you come and have one, dinner _will_ be ready." it was like getting a child to take a bath without bubbles. "No shower, no food. Simple."

Releasing it to allow his response, all she received was a distorted growling sound, and to that, the last of her encouraged patience with him was lost. Scowling darkly to narrow cerulean eyes with a vindictive glare, she pressed back to send him a growl of her own, before her hackles were raised like a hissing cat to yell into the intercom.

"Fine! Starve! But just for being a jerk about it—" she brought a hand to viciously slap the green shut off, and with an exhaustive whirr, the gravity generator began to power down. "—you can train in your own gravity tonight!" a quick fumbling with a small plastic covering was all it took before her fingers hastily ripped the security key out of the ignition, preventing any further use of the capsule, and turning on her heel the heiress would begin to storm back toward the house.

When she had reached the back door once again, however, Bulma took pause to look back. The capsule door remained firmly sealed, and furrowing her brows in guilt and anger, the heiress gave a sorry sigh. With a shake of her head, she glanced down at the little blue key in her hand, almost forlorn.

"Damn it, Vegeta, why do you have to be like this...?" she whispered quietly to the twilight air, cool breeze tussling her blue locks with a gentle caress.

But just as she turned to make her way inside, the creak of the door ushering her halfway through the threshold, the unholy sound of metal being being forced out of shape and then giving way to an incredible force tore across the lawn. Cerulean eyes shot wide as her head whipped back toward the capsule, and Bulma was greeted by the sight of blinding blue energy bursting through the front hatch to melt a hole, fading to leave a circle of molten steel still aglow with a vengeful red shade. Mouth gaping wide as it struggled to form words enough to even exclaim her horror and outrage, she stared breathlessly at the needless carnage wrought upon the beautiful machine, frozen for a moment in sheer disbelief. At least three days work just opened up in the shape of a hole before her, and more than that, three days in which Vegeta couldn't train—by his own doing, no less.

Darting forward from the doorway to take a belligerent stance, her fists balled to match the hateful expression contorting her gorgeous visage into a scowl that would match the Saiyan's, and yelling across the grounds her anger was almost tangible.

"What the hell, Vegeta!" she waved an arm as she cried out, her volume easily carrying across the distance as an irate Prince floated out of the newly forged exit. "Are you crazy? What did you do that for? I'm going to have to replace the whole door and opening mechanism!"

His sneakers settled upon the grass, and immediately, he began stomping toward her with a murderous look that very nearly silenced her there and then—for all the sense telling her to retreat back inside before he caught up though, Bulma remained put with a stubborn sense of self righteousness. As the flame haired prince drew near, almost hunched as he bore sharp canines at her, she couldn't help but take notice of the state of him. Tanned flesh was seared with thick streaks of red, like shallow burns, and painted with blurred blotched of purple-grey bruising. Upon white knuckled fists was scrapes of raw skin, grazing on each finger and smears of dried blood were he'd wiped it from a split lip. The dark circles under his eyes spoke of even less sleep than before, and a small cut settled neatly upon his left cheek.

Painfully snapping her from her observations, the Saiyan barked at her with a sneeringly hoarse yell. "You locked me in, you imbecilic cretin! How the hell else did you expect me to get out?" stopping several feet in front of her, Vegeta would level a finger to point at her, hand shaking by a mixture of fatigue and anger. "Now thanks to your foolishness, I'll have to wait for repairs! Congratulations, Woman! You wanted me to rest on my laurels as your precious Kakarot gets stronger; well wish granted! Will there be anymore on your part to enable my death, or do you wish for me to blast us both into oblivion now and save the trouble?"

Biting her tongue, Bulma could do little more than blanch as she realised what she had done, turning the key about in her fingers and hiding it behind her thigh as if to cover her mistake. Though she tried to hold her attitude, she could feel her bold expression falter, brows twitching into something more unsure of herself than angry. An old part of her was writhing inside, wanting nothing more than to scream at him and unleash all of her rage and pent up stress in a verbal lashing that would leave sensitive Saiyan ears to ring.

A chaotic whirlwind of things thrashed within her mind, calling more than she had bargained for to the surface, and sucking air through her teeth as she readied for the argument, simply felt something break in her instead. Something snapped, and the emotional floodgates opened to send a torrent of suppressed things bubbling up all at once to overwhelm. She'd held in so much over the last few days... over the last weeks, even, and and the beast she'd caged reared its ugly head to swallow her control in one bite.

She saw something flash in his eyes besides the hellfire burning there, his head inclining a fraction and knitted black brows twitching in uncertain surprise. She didn't recognise what it was for until she felt the hot tear sliding down flushed cheek, and attention drawn to herself, she realised her slight frame gave a shudder. A sob hitched in her throat, and though she willed it to stop in shame and despair, another tear rolled free. Her features twisted beyond her control, cringing for it all, and the fight was already lost.

Her arm snapped back and the little blue key would be pelted at him before the heiress turned in haste to flee, and not even lingering to see the key's fate or the reaction gained, bare feet ran to close the distance between her and the door. A sharp and lonely slam would see the Saiyan left there, bemused and unvented in his frustrations, to stare unflinchingly at the key as it bounced off his torso to land abandoned upon the grass. He knelt slowly to retrieve it, gingerly plucking it up from the ground as he found a dark gaze rising to glance at the closed doorway, brows furrowed in a silent question that he knew would see no answer.

The Prince did not appear at the Briefs' table that night, and Bulma—though her mother faithfully brought a plate up to her room—refused to open her door.


	4. Of Locks and Keys

Chapter 4: **Of Locks and Keys**

He fancied himself not unlike the steel beneath him, as Vegeta lay there atop the gravity capsule, still in need of repairs and now a full day wasted in wait of them. In his right hand, fingers turned the small blue key about obsessively—it was literally the key to his progress, after all, and in that sense of importance he handled it gingerly with pensive distraction.

It was almost a security item now, and he had not let it go since plucking it up from the grass.

Without the harsh regime to throw himself into, his thoughts were catching up to a weary mind and the Saiyan found difficulty ignoring them. It had long been that way; for as long as he was idle, the demons in his head roamed ravenous and free from the cages of routine and discipline. Uselessly sprawled at their mercy, with nothing more than spandex shorts and a pair of worn sneakers to shield him from the night air, he resigned himself to twiddling the key and staring up at the stars—or at least, what he could see of them.

The flame-haired Prince never had been fond of large cities, for a start; filled with strange scents and musty air, a car alarm here and apathy enough to leave it going there. Shallow rage flew about as motorists yelled out obscenities, and the vile sights of overweight women in obscene fashion were suffered needlessly. Children unattended or ignored, and left to pester others. Media running rampant with an idiocy-fuelled democracy in which celebrities were chosen and worshipped or condemned for whatever they peddled—even the scar faced bandit the Woman associated with had been spied by a Saiyan eye, gracing a billboard or giant screen.

No, the humdrum of these pathetic people and what they called their lives, content within concrete prisons, did nothing to excite his senses.

Adding insult to injury, the light pollution at night blocked out much of the many worlds beyond that he knew, and restrictive as ever, reduced his nightly gazing to a sad select view of the local galactic arm.

City life aside, though, an old thought bothered him. Upon his voyage to Earth, made painfully aware of it by the sensors in his pod, Vegeta had found himself to be the farthest removed from where his home had once been than ever before.

In the darkness of his scowling eyes, the notion swirled that the light of Planet Vegeta's explosive destruction may not have travelled to such lengths as yet. When he stood on the dirt of this tiny blue planet, Vegeta wondered if somewhere overhead he was haunted by the ghost of his world, marked as it was by the distant shimmer of a lonely star. Any high-powered telescope pointed to it may reveal the spectre of his planet, pristine and untouched; a perfect illusion that seemed to await him still... but in the damnable glow of an Earthling metropolis, not even the faintest speck of his home star could be traced in the sky above.

Privately, the Prince hoped such a sight had already come and gone. The Earthlings would not know the odd twinkling of his star for what it was, and none would mourn when the flicker of it died to become dim and bleak. None of them would care, nor even notice the change.

If indeed it had occurred already, not even Kakarot would likely have taken note as the ghost of his birthplace disappeared from above...

It angered—and even disturbed—the Prince more than he would like to admit. Yet another unworthy race that had lived on while his would perish, never knowing how privileged they were to have scraped by under the galaxy's numerous threats.

_Entire worlds swept away with the flick of his wrist, and yet, not a single life lost when Frieza __**and**__ his father set foot here, intent on killing the lot of them, _came his own voice echoing through his head. That morbid curiosity had been burning within him for some time now, and letting dark eyes scan the limited night sky, the Saiyan's mouth ticked. _How can that be possible? How can such a mighty race fall so easily, while these ants scurry about under the foot of giants and survive even greater odds; oblivious? _

Brows knitted together as his silent questions went unheard and unanswered. An irritable sigh escaped him as he sat up, resting elbows upon scuffed knees and glaring down at black steel. The muscles around his shoulder blades were tight and held a sting, as did his calves, though none of that discomfort was evident on his face as he moved. He was making quick progress, he was sure of it... he simply had to be.

"Damn that boy..." he growled low to himself, thinking back to the day of prophecy. "How dare he make a mockery of me like that? Calling himself a Saiyan... as if Kakarot isn't an insult enough to our race as is, without some purple haired freak cropping up beside him!" A derisive snort came for it all as his fist tightened around the key. "Super Saiyans both, and here I sit at the mercy of these idiots while they twiddle thumbs over safety measures and repair work. The Saiyan Prince, left to advance at the whim of an Earth Woman..."

It was infuriating.

Cocking his head to one side, Vegeta sent a dark glare toward the balcony of one Bulma Briefs. No light was on to filter softly outward, but he knew well she was tucked away up there. He could feel her abysmal life force, keen senses narrowing in on it as if a mosquito whined beside his ear. Such a tiny and fragile sensation was annoying to even sense there, translated as a high pitched whir against the vibrato hum of power such as his, or even that of Kakarot. When the Saiyan did focus upon the pinpoint of ki she gave off in the world, he found it to be primal and inclement, prone to fluctuation and unsteady.

He had little doubt that she had spent this day—an entire night and day with not hide nor hair of her since last they spoke—in the grips of an emotional landslide; delicate little thing she was, tossed about like driftwood on the oceans of her own feelings.

But, her turmoil was trivial. His was not, brought about for the fact he couldn't progress any further until she or her father fixed the damned machine. Like many unexpected annoyances on her part, once again Vegeta found that the Woman had an uncanny ability to make _her_ problems become _his_ problems. When Bulma entertained chaos, it inevitably spilled into the lives of those around her, leaving everybody affected by it.

A trait the Prince was beginning to resent her deeply for.

But impatience, anxiety and perhaps even idle boredom had affixed his gaze to her balcony and refused to let it go. Despite his better judgement, something ticked over in Vegeta's mind that saw him rise to his feet. Muscles tensed to ripple beneath the scars, and slowly he began to lift himself away from the steel and up into the air with lax ease. Almost unconscious of his actions—and with only himself in mind—the Prince began to float steadily upwards and toward the Heiress' bedroom.

His stealth came easily under the cover of darkness, sharp eyes already accustomed to it as the first tattered sneaker settled upon the cold tile of her balcony. The glass of her sliding door seemed to be tinted, and the Prince found his own glare directed back at him by its reflection—even so, the faintest glow could be seen through it, blurred as it was. He moved closer, a slight sway in an attempt to see past himself in the glass, and with a suspicious squint the Saiyan took to pressing an ear against it instead.

Had he a tail still, it would've twitched in curiosity. Within the silence, the faint and muffled rumble of the Woman's snores could be heard, and a slight sneer crept over his mouth as the Prince drew back with some scorn.

_Idle as usual, _his mind hissed, now fixated on the thought of barging in and slapping her awake._ She can sleep when she's fixed the damned door._

Dark eyes swept the handle as he brought a hand to it, intent on warping the metal of the lock quietly with the heat of his ki, but to his surprise the door was already open by a sliver. Frowning for her lack of security as he slid it open softly, Vegeta couldn't help but roll his eyes—perhaps she would be expecting the scarred idiot to come calling instead, leaving it ajar to invite some secretive tryst.

Before he'd crossed the threshold though, the scent of her room took him aback, overpowering his sensitive nose as it was unleashed by the opened door. It was like a wall, smelling of stale coffee with the near burning chemical scent of perfumes to cover it. Blinking to keep his eyes from watering, it was a good moment or so before the Saiyan finally stepped in, giving a jerk of his head as if to rid himself of the off-putting taste in the air...

Oh, how he suddenly wished he hadn't, when his scent-blurred vision cleared.

Vegeta's whole body tensed with shock as, wide eyed, he took in the state of her dwelling—books, rubbish and clothes upon the carpet, bed unmade and a mess of tangled cords stemming from a power board. Empty cups and half consumed snack foods littered the room. Her belongings were on the _floor_, when not jammed into an overstocked bookshelf of knick-knacks and CDs, completely unorganised. In such chaos it was a wonder the Woman could even dress herself, let alone undertake complex mathematics or work with fragile circuitry.

How dare she pretend to know what was best for him when—clearly—she couldn't even take care of herself? He almost pitied the state of it all, a nervous squeeze given to the blue key for having breathed the tainted air. The risk of respiratory infection was not something he wished to entertain, though now he could understand what the Woman meant when she mentioned 'feeling under the weather' as an excuse for delayed tasks. He would be careful not to touch anything unless necessary, an itch settling in his palms as he remembered he wasn't wearing any gloves.

…_And she complains about__** my**__ hygiene? Does her hypocrisy know no bounds?_

Grimacing with disgust as his attention swept the Heiress' bedroom, his ears twitched to the sound of her snoring again, though to the Prince's surprise, the noise didn't come from the folds of her bed.

Half silhouetted under the faint glow of a computer screen, tussled curls of blue splayed out over an arm and her keyboard, the Heiress' sleeping form lay slumped upon her desk. The unflattering pink nightgown covered her down to the knees, legs languishing from the plush cushion of a swivel chair as the soft light played upon her features. With her frail form curled over scattered notes it was clear she had exhausted herself over something, though even from a few feet back, Vegeta could make out the puffy redness around her eyes—it was likely she had simply cried herself to sleep, though he hadn't the faintest clue as to what was upsetting her.

_If it's me, then she's more stupid than her hair looks._

Taking a moment to glance over her, the Saiyan turned the small key over in his fingers once more, caught studying her with a morbid fascination. His interactions with her were out of necessity and convenience, a mutual service—for the moment—to prepare for a common enemy, though increasingly, Bulma seemed to be investing herself much too personally in their dealings with one another. His gaze dropped to the key as it rested in his palm, and recalling their last spat, Vegeta wondered of the rapport she continued to impose upon him.

From where he stood, he had been very clear. He did not wish for companionship, or require any more from her than the upkeep of his training equipment, and his harsh and dismissive behaviour with her should've been more than enough to discourage all else. He didn't pretend to understand why she refused to just let him be, and for the most part tried to ignore her and her family, making himself as separate from their lives as possible while still living within the compound. But as dark eyes traced the Heiress' gorgeous features in the darkness, he found they evoked an unwanted image.

She looked much the same as she did that day after the explosion; cradled upon the hardwood table at his bedside, weary with worry and waiting for him to wake. Gods only knew what had possessed her to remain there, after she had arranged medical treatment for him, knowing she could do no more to aid his recovery. Perhaps she simply felt useful there, wanting to claim his resilience as her own triumph.

Bulma had labelled it care, whenever it did come up. Vegeta, however, felt it much more resembled a want for control.

With a careful squint to the mess about his feet, the Prince made his way slowly over to where she rested, a good effort made not to step on anything or make any noise in his movements. Stepping over a waste paper basket to stand beside her now, he allowed himself to peruse her desk top, scanning her notes in the changing light of a screensaver.

Raising a black brow slowly, calloused fingers took to poking through the paper, sliding them around to get a better picture of her work. Some of it he understood, other pieces escaped him specifically, while a few things looked familiar. Rough sketches of the Gravity Capsule alongside preliminary designs for some sort of part for it caught his attention as he uncovered them, and a placated smirk graced him. If the idle pencil near a limp hand spoke anything about what she'd been doing while locked up in her room, he was pleased to find it relevant to himself.

_At least she has sense enough not to forget where her priorities lie, _he thought, his attention drawn to the mouse beside her, and placing the key down upon her desk he couldn't help himself.

Leaning over her to reach for it with a sly gaze trained upon the slumbering Heiress' face, just a tentative poke was enough to sate his curiosity, the screen lighting up to reveal a plethora of open windows and projects. At the change in luminosity though, Bulma stirred some, blue brows furrowing some in subconscious protest to it. Vegeta grew cautiously still as he saw the change, watching like a hawk for any signs of her waking and cursing himself internally for not expecting it.

He wasn't sure when exactly his intention to disturb her sleep had faded, but to be caught in such a position now might cause him more trouble than it was worth. Holding his breath as the woman shifted slightly beneath his arm, a flash of horror caught him when long lashes parted some to blink slowly, half asleep.

"…Mm… Vegeta…?"

He said nothing. He didn't move. There was every chance he could still escape her realisation of reality, letting her tired mind lull her back into whatever fantasy she entertained previously. To his relief, her gaze drifted unfocussed towards him, and he could easily tell her night vision was poor in comparison to his own. Still, she seemed to know his silhouette, content in her haze to study the familiar shadow as she murmured still, barely coherent.

"I know you're much nicer… in my head, but…" a slow blink threatened to send her back to dozing. "Can't… keep dreaming of you like… this… Yamcha… s'not right of me… so soon after… bad enough as it is." her lips barely moved around the words, but already, Vegeta's interest was piqued.

Staring down at her with a clinical sense of amusement, the smirk flirted dangerously with the corner of his mouth, and he saw a strange opportunity to draw honesty from her. Carefully so as not to startle her with any sudden movements, he righted himself to his full height, drawing backward from the revealing glow of her screen to cock a brow.

He licked his lips in thought of what to say, a sly taste on his tongue as he spoke quiet and slow, losing some of the gravel to his tone. "That almost sounds as if you've parted ways on bad terms..." he was careful not to let his delight at that show through. The more time the Woman had to spare the better, and her 'friends and relations' only served to sidetrack her from important matters.

He was almost certain she suffered from some sort of attention deficit disorder.

In her delirious state, Bulma's features twisted into a slight frown, as if in denial. "Mm… n-no not… like that." Her speech was warped by a wide yawn then. "I… broke it off… few days back…But s'no excuse for you… t'pop up in my dreams again…"

"Does that mean I won't be seeing that idi—" he paused, correcting himself. She said he was 'nice' in her head, didn't she? Wouldn't want her to realise the real him was in her room, gleaning personal information. "_Yamcha_… hanging around to distract you from here on out?"

_Perhaps I should entertain miracles more often, _he smirked to himself.

Instead of a straightforward answer as he'd hoped for, though, even in her sleep talk Bulma seemed as eager to prattle as she did in waking, quick to tangent. She shifted some, readjusting her head a little and closing her eyes again. "S'your fault too. If you hadn't… kissed me in that first dream… wouldn't be worried 'bout him being… jealous… getting the wrong ideas…" she mumbled, too out of it to lace her tone with the defensiveness she would've otherwise. Breathless and barely audible, she continued after a slight pause. "Not the point… but… if you weren't here… be… easier t'deal with… can't even break up without you being involved, somehow… everything's always 'bout you."

Any trace of the smirk soon fled him, the angular lines of his face darkening within the faint glow to scowl. Already, this was beginning to stray from his expectations, steadily seeming a futile disappointment like all other dealings with her. A kiss shared in a dream? Now it was all beginning to make sense. If there was any place Vegeta truly understood, it was the inside of a head; psychology had long been a strong suit of his, having constantly battled the tides of his own restless ocean of thoughts, let alone reading others in battle.

A nicer, perhaps more polite version of himself—an ideal—forged in her head, submissive enough to kiss _her_? A whipping boy and emotional slave to her, serving faithfully while caught in a spell of desire… no doubt stemmed from her over-inflated ego and vanity. He knew well enough it wasn't to be taken so literally as that, but the symbolism was clear.

Her ideal 'him' was likely not so different from the 'boyfriend' role she had the Bandit play.

She expected affection and endearment; for him to pander to her comforts and conduct, falling into line with the rest of her spineless friends and bending to her whims to avoid her ire. She did not wish to be challenged or fight to earn her self claimed spotlight of adoration. He was right, it wasn't care at all—it was control, and expected conformity. The Woman wished him to play by her cultural ruling and personal preferences, and all the while she simply refused to acknowledge and respect his own.

_Well, no wonder she gets so upset with me, _his mind hissed sarcastically, glaring eyes scouring her form with enough hate in them to set her nightgown alight. _She's still caught wondering why the world isn't her pony, and here I come to tread upon her rainbows._

At his sides, calloused hands clenched tightly into fists, tense with the want to strike something. Gritting his teeth as he steeled himself enough not to yell at her, tearing her from her haze and spitting poison at her blasted dreams, the Prince would incline his head with a low growl, thinly veiling his anger.

"Woman…" he ground out forcefully with a sneer, though maintained his quiet volume. "The designs you've been working on for updating the gravity machine. Are they finished?" it was bitter, slithering through his teeth to chill the air as dark eyes narrowed.

Stirred back from the brink of sleep just as she'd begun to drift away again, the Heiress furrowed her brows, frowning drowsily for the disturbance. Without even glancing up, she grimaced for it, and reflexively rubbed her nose as she drawled an answer. "Nn… Yeah… Pressure systems, all… done… prototypes… gotta install…"

Turning from the very sight of her, he glanced back over his shoulder, wanting to distance himself from the capricious little tart as soon as possible. "Good." He spat coldly, before making hasty strides toward her bedside table, kicking a pile of clothes aside as he went. Snatching the digital clock up, he began to set an alarm, pressing the buttons firmly and setting it down with audible resolution.

"If you have any semblance of respect for who I am, and what I do…" the Saiyan made to take his leave of her filthy room, pausing on the threshold of her balcony to grip the frame of the sliding door. "…you _will_ be out of this room and starting work on it by seven tomorrow morning."

The harsh tone was too foreign to her ear to be accepted as fantasy for very long, and disturbed by it, Bulma shifted restlessly as his words buzzed in the fringe of her tired mind. But with the sharp sound of her door sliding swift to be slammed, hitting the latch with such force it bounced open again by a sliver, the Heiress found her slumber painfully shattered to sit bolt up in her chair. Shaken awake by it, her clearing eyes blinked to take in her surrounds, frantic with confusion as they searched the darkness for the source of her fright.

Letting go of a breath she didn't realise she'd held, her hand drifted to her chest as if to calm her beating heart. She didn't know what the bang was, so startled she could barely recall what she'd been dreaming of, but as she leaned upon the desk to bury her face in her hands, she found it glinting softly beneath the glow of her screen. Threatening to throw her sanity into chaos, she stared at it in disbelief, tentative fingers brushing it simply to affirm it was real.

The little blue ignition key had appeared upon her desk, unmistakable as the one she had thrown at Vegeta when last they fought. As Bulma held it to the faint light, taken aback with some horror for the find, the haze of sleep left her enough to allow her mind a rather startling acuity. In the throes of a conspiracy, she stood quickly, rolling her chair aside and nearly bounding toward the glass door, hoping to catch a glimpse of her intruder.

Not even a shadow of him remained.

**A/N:**

**I finally did some editing on this, and I laughed at how many little bits were off, like words repeated twice, that I never even noticed before because I always seem to be writing tired. **

**Slightly shorter chapter this one, because I think it works well as a little cliff hanger, sort of. Plus it wrapped itself up neatly and nicely, and there will be a very awkward conversation next chapter, I should imagine… More awkward than talking to somebody in their sleep? Hmm… I dunno about that one. **

**Watching him all these years, Vegeta's a little bit of a sneak. All the running around he did on Namek to get under Frieza's skin… how he sits back and watches the others fight and only jumps in when it he's got a feel for the situation… He's very mistrusting, very manipulative, and likes to have a plan before he jumps in so that he can swing things in his favour.**

**I realised then that this kind of spying really isn't above the Prince of Saiyans…**

**Oh well, I still love him, anyway.**

**Onwards to Glory. **


	5. Returning the Favour

Chapter 5: **Returning the Favour**

The shrill beeping of the alarm at seven was obnoxious and loud, piercing the air like a wailing child, and it was a rude awakening for the restless Heiress when it came. Since the startling sound that woke her in the night, Bulma had tossed and turned with a great sense of unease, resigning herself back to her bed and trying desperately to take comfort in its warmth.

Rolling on her side to smack the clock carelessly with a pillow, she lazed there a moment to spite it, uncaring that the covers had long been kicked off of her legs. She didn't set an alarm. Blue eyes traced the wooden surface of her bedside table and spied the little key, still as real as it had been when she'd found it on her desk.

There was no doubt in her mind now, recalling a hazy sense of the Prince's presence in her dreams with a frown. No, it wasn't a dream… Vegeta had been in her room, and she saw all the proof she needed.

Why? She still hadn't the foggiest idea, though she'd strained her mind as it sat between sleep and wakefulness to remember it more clearly. Fleeting glimpses were all she had of it, enough to know that he'd definitely been there, but not enough to piece together their conversation. The fuzzy memory of his voice burned in her ears even now, and releasing her grip on the pillow, Bulma was left seething—and mortified—by such a breach of her privacy.

Sitting up she sent an accusatory glare toward her computer across the room, knowing it held the finished work on the pressure systems, and held on to the one clear message she could wrench from her brain.

_You __**will**__ be out of this room and starting work on it by seven tomorrow morning._

Fuelled by anger, Bulma shifted quickly, sliding herself out of bed and grabbing the key with haste. "He wants me out of bed, does he? Fine…" She hissed to herself, venomous in her resignation to complete the work as intended, despite him. "It's high time he got a wake up call himself."

She practically tore the nightgown over head to change, scrunching it up some to toss it at the bed in frustration. She would make no extra effort for that man than was required; a black tank top and three quarter yoga pants were enough, even a bra forgone in favour of comfort. Slipping into a simple pair of black flats quickly and snatching a puffy jacket from a pile on the floor, only a brief glance to her mirror was given. As expected, her hair was a mess of languid curls, tangled and unkempt, and she was sure she spotted dark rings under her eyes.

She knew she looked like crap, but she just didn't care anymore. Where did anybody get off judging her on appearance in her own home, anyway? It was her hallways, her lab, her yard—she was tired, stressed and alone, overworked and underappreciated. What difference did it make if she did her hair properly or made the effort to wear makeup?

Her good looks wouldn't defeat the androids, or get the gravity machine in working order, and they certainly didn't do anything to entice Vegeta's charm… if he even had any.

Jacket zipped and door slammed, the Heiress would storm down the hall, stomping her way down the stairs as if each one was the Saiyan's foot. Her fist was tight around the key as she came down into the living room, passing the archway to the kitchen without pause. The smell of bacon cooking didn't sway her either, not even a glance given to her mother as she went about breakfast with a cheery hum.

"Morning, Sweetie! Are you feeling any better?" Pansy called airily, wiping her hands on a tea towel. But when her daughter didn't stop or reply, the blonde knew something was very wrong, her heart falling in her chest with concern. "…Bulma?"

The harsh snapping open and slamming of the front door didn't bode well at all, and Pansy flinched for the sound of it, giving a surprised 'oh!' before turning quickly to the window. Leaning over the sink, she would open it with some panic, trying in vain to poke her head out far enough to see. Helplessly, she chanced a yell, cupping her hand and hoping to high heaven her daughter would hear it.

"Bulma, wait…! Sweetie, think about it before you go upsetting things, I know you're hurting but you can't take it out on others…!" craning to see, she caught the glimpse of blue making a beeline for the gravity chamber, and it was clear that Bulma had ignored her. Unsure of what to do to prevent conflict, Pansy held her breath for a moment, pulling herself back in and thinking frantically for a distraction as her finger pressed to her lips. "Oh, dear…"

Within the minute, the Heiress had crossed the lawns to be within earshot of the capsule, wasting no time in raising her voice to it, instinct telling her that—regardless of functionality—she'd find the Prince inside.

"Vegeta! Get out here, **now**!"

Coming to a stop in front of the twisted metal of the hole where the door once was, Bulma glared up at it absolutely affronted, her arms crossed tensely beneath her bust. In that moment she looked far more like Vegeta than herself, as if trying to mimic his surly behaviour, though the rage shimmering in blue eyes burned brightly.

Before long, she caught the glimpse of his hair first, listening to his slow steps as they echoed within the chamber. It felt like a small eternity waiting for him to appear, but finally, wearing nothing but a pair of grey night shorts, the Prince settled a bare foot on the edge of the mottled steel to stare down at her. Now it seemed he was the drowsy one, a cold calm about him betraying that he didn't care for the way she came calling, and sleepless dark eyes took stock of her quietly.

Bulma readied a lungful of air to speak again, but with a click of his tongue, the Saiyan beat her to the punch in a much more controlled tone.

"I almost didn't expect you to get up at all… but judging by the lack of tools with you, I suppose you might as well have stayed in bed, anyway." it was clear he was unimpressed with her, but instead of snarling it through his teeth as he normally might have, he looked more like he was suffering from a headache than anger. It took Bulma aback enough to see her scowl falter momentarily, and the Prince gave a defeated and resentful sigh, flicking his hand in dismissal as he turned to retreat back in.

Her mouth open at the audacity of it, how_ flippant_ he was about it, the Heiress cocked her head back to scoff in disbelief. "Now you wait just a damn minute! Don't you turn your back on me! …Vegeta!" having left her sight again, she gave an irritated groan and bristled like a cat in water to stomp her foot. "That's it!" she cried suddenly, throwing her arms to her sides and stalking forward with intent to climb up after him.

_You invade my space, I'll invade yours! _Bending her knees to jump, it took a few tries before she accepted it was too high for her. Not to be outdone, though, her stubborn nature and resourcefulness shone through, and with no more than a glance to the nearest leg of the ship, she was upon the white of it with haste. Standing with added height now, the key was transferred to her teeth quickly, freeing up her hand. She'd lean to get a firm hold of the warped lip of the hole he'd blasted, swinging out to dangle from it and shimmying along some. With a spirited wiggle and some effort, she finally managed to get her elbow over and pull herself upward. Swinging a leg over, Bulma straddled the metal for a moment, near furious as she scanned the chamber for any sign of him. When no sign of him could be traced, she was quick in her deduction, standing to make a run for the ladder down to the sleeping quarters without a second thought.

He was in for it, now; no ifs, ands or buts. There were going to be questions, answers, and a very clear line drawn in the sand.

She slid down the ladder without touching a single rung. Her feet were swift and quiet as she rounded through the kitchenette to turn into the only place he could be—a tiny bedroom and en suite bathroom, left over from the capsule's original design as a ship. When Bulma stepped across _his _threshold in turn, puffing some from the effort of catching up to the Prince, she was ropable.

To the left of her he stood waiting, leaning against the wall beside the doorframe, arms crossed over his scarred chest. The instant she caught sight of him in the corner of her eye, she rounded on him with a whip of tussled blue curls, ripping the key from her mouth and thrusting it at him as if it were his signature on a death warrant.

"Where the hell do you get off, coming into my room like that in the dead of night, you psychopath?!" she spat the words at him like knives, intent on flaying him where he stood. "Did you really think I was stupid enough not to realise it, when you set a god damned _alarm_, Vegeta? I can't believe you; coming into _my_ personal space, with _no_ respect for my privacy, spying on my work like it's _owed_ to you and trying to con _even more_ out of me in my _sleep_!"

Flashing her teeth to snap harshly at him, it only riled her up more that the Prince seemed to be taking it all in stride, staring her down without so much as a blink. Growling with disgust for his behaviour, she began to shake the key at him, as if it would help drum the words into his thick ape skull.

"I am not your door mat, Vegeta! I'm working as hard as I can on keeping up with your needs, in between everything else! You don't even use my name; the least you could do is stay the hell out of my room and wait for the repairs, but even that seems to be asking too much!"

Without missing a beat, the Saiyan gave a slow nod to their surrounds, and the trap was sprung. "…But you have no qualms in returning the favour, it seems." He gave a tired sounding sigh, closing his eyes as if it pained him to keep looking at her—her ridiculous hair colour never did make the task any easier, even without her making a fool of herself otherwise. "Or did you not consider that, in between however you managed to get in and bursting into my quarters to chastise me?"

The Heiress whipped her head back defensively, wide eyes turning to scan the room for any excuse to deny it, though as the gravity of where she was standing finally hit her, a strange duality between them became shockingly obvious.

Vegeta's room was completely bare, stark and lonely and built of pure necessity. Cold tile lined the floors uncovered by any mat to warm it, though she knew there was one stored in the thin closet beside her. The simplistic double bed was immaculately made, sheets tucked so perfectly you could very well bounce a coin off of them, and only two white pillows graced it—she could guess the extra pair was also left neglected in storage. Not only that, she couldn't spot a single drop of blood anywhere, despite the Saiyan's habit for ignoring his wounds.

The pictures and landscapes were stripped from the walls and stacked neatly in one corner to hide there unseen. None of the fake plants her father had installed to stave off cabin fever in flight remained. It smelt clinical and clean, without even the barest hint of sweat. Even a few pairs of sneakers sat neatly tucked at the bottom of white drawers, which no doubt held what little clothes he had, folded and organised to await being destroyed in his training.

It didn't look like anybody used it at all, and in truth, Bulma hadn't immediately known this _was _serving as his bedroom. Yet confronted by it, she realised then that Vegeta must've slept here more often than not, forgoing the invitation of a room inside the house in favour of his solitude. Yes, her mother had confirmed it on several occasions—bemused by it as she rambled—that the guest room prepared for him went unused, now that the Heiress thought back.

The surprise in it distracted her as blue eyes roamed the space in disbelief, knowing that such living conditions—while clean—certainly couldn't be a healthy reflection on the one who kept them so. It was almost stifling as Bulma felt a strange sense of claustrophobia wash over her, stealing the angry words from her mouth to leave her perturbed by it instead. When finally the heiress' gaze found his again, those dark eyes seemed emptier than she'd ever seen them, as if he were nothing but a shell without a soul.

Even his scowling visage seemed bereft of any true expression, blank and distant as he regarded her in silence. Clearly, her barging in to _his _room without permission did not hold the same affect as it had upon her. If he was offended in the slightest or felt any kind of intrusion, for the life of her, Bulma couldn't see it.

That scared her more than she realised, when Vegeta broke his reticence to draw her back from the epiphany. In his mind, what he'd said to her was binding—she may have been up at seven, but she certainly wasn't working to fix any problems. No, more like start some new ones, instead… his question was of respect, and her answer was all too clear.

She had none, and he would give none in turn.

"Such double standards…" the Saiyan mused with a click of his tongue, condescension lingering on the edge of it. "That explains why your father hasn't handed the company over to you yet, though your mother often boasts that you're some sort of prodigy." he offered it suddenly, quiet and detached as he held her gaze, and Bulma watched in horror as cruel flash took his eyes. "With such poor skills in leadership, you'd be unfit to rule an anthill… You can barely organise your own room. I won't even bother going into how you lack determination, Woman. Your laziness is almost as appalling as your unreliability."

The brunt of what he said hit her with enough force to back step, the words slithering through her head like serpents, sinking their fangs into tender flesh with a sharp and unexpected sting. For a moment she simply gaped at the nerve of him, before blue eyes narrowed into icy slivers, lip curled as a flare of raw hatred seized her.

"…Excuse me?" she enunciated it slowly, quietly cold and allowing him a chance to second guess himself, perhaps even retract what he'd said. He made no visible move to do so, not even a smirk to show he was amusing himself, or simply trying to get a rise out of her. No, this was personal; she could see it in written all over him. She could hear the sincerity in his gravelled voice, though at present it ran smoothed, like a lie.

"You heard me." the Prince inclined his head, and the evil flash in his eyes marked his words with a predatory truth. "At first I assumed you to be actively sabotaging my progress, perhaps to keep me trailing after your beloved Kakarot… strong enough to make a difference against the androids, but not so much so as to kill him when all is said and done. But now I understand that would be giving you far too much credit." A roll of his shoulders finished it, and his head cocked upwards again with a haughty tilt.

"I _will_ become a Super Saiyan sooner or later, and when I do, you'll know how _little_ control over me you actually have. Beg and cry all you want when it comes to it, but no matter how fiercely you yell, I'll still be laying Kakarot's corpse at your feet… maybe I'll put him in your bedroom with the rest of the trash."

Bulma was livid. Without hesitation or thought, no sooner than he'd uttered the last of it did her arm move to strike him. She didn't care if he'd block it with ease. She didn't even care if he'd hit her back. In those last few moments something simply snapped in her head and all thoughts of redemption for the Saiyan—any concern for him, all traces of affection or empathy—were set ablaze. All she knew was that right now, she despised him entirely, and he didn't deserve her friendship or her care.

It all seemed to happen in a blur; Vegeta moving to catch her fist as expected while Bulma's other arm was hurled to compensate, autonomous as she struggled in vain—against impossible odds—just for the slim chance she may hurt him. She simply couldn't stop herself, literally kicking and screaming as he held her at bay with a bemused look of surprise plastered on his features. The Heiress did not see it, her blue eyes bound shut against the burn of tears again, though this time they were of helpless rage. The words came streaming out of her, high pitched and cracked, intended to assault his eardrums as best she could manage while fighting his grip.

"The only way you'll ever be a damned Super Saiyan is through _mine_ and my father's technology, you arrogant prick! This is _my_ house! _My_ family's money, food, patience…! I invited you here as a _guest_, and whether you help fight the androids or not, it's high fucking time you started acting like one! Barging in to dictate my affairs and judge my every move, holding me to task like a slave and demanding the world on a string, like my life revolves around you…!" her whole body shook in its tension and Bulma's cheeks flushed bright red, her knees searching for his groin of their own accord in her great effort to cause him pain.

Though taken aback initially by her feisty—though poorly executed—attack, Vegeta was quick to regain his senses, blocking her blow with his thigh reflexively. Baring his teeth now, his own scowl deepened, furious for the nerve of her want to strike him at all, let alone there; such a dirty move was low even for her. The Prince's hold on her wrists tightened to an extent he knew she found painful, cordlike muscle rippling to keep the woman at arm's length without much trouble, but even all of it seemed to go unnoticed in her fury. His ears were ringing already with the sound of the harpy's shrieking voice, bringing him to wince whenever she emphasised a word.

He had killed for less, in the past… but he was a man bound by his word where Bulma was concerned. Such was the tradition among his people, thanks to a lesser population of female Saiyans in the past—when a man gave his word to a woman, he held to it. She may have been an Earthling, but _he_ was the Saiyan Prince, and as such the task fell to him to embody and preserve what his race once was, regardless. He wasn't to touch her; wasn't to _truly_ harm her or take advantage of her so long as their accord held. No matter what she may have done to frustrate him, Vegeta intended to honour that, if only to spite her…

He was, however, currently entertaining regret for making their verbal contract in the first place.

"Damn it, Woman, get _off_ of me…!" he yelled back with a growl, willing her to back down before he _did_ slip up and hurt her, though it was lost as Bulma continued straight over the top of it, still trying desperately to kick at him.

"I open up my home, offer forgiveness and kindness from the bottom of my heart, giving you a second chance you _so_ do _not_ deserve, and you think you can just walk in and take over? News flash, Vegeta, this is not a planet you can just wander in and claim like the rest of them! How dare you, throwing all the hard work we've put into your equipment in our face! If you break it, it isn't good enough; if you can't break it, you try to kill yourself in the process! Not once have you even thanked me for what I've done for you, not _once!_ You wanna keep threatening my friends and insulting me? Well, let's just see how fast this thing can get fixed if the job is left up to a stupid monkey like y—"

_Fuck the accord._

At that word—that old trigger, like a raw nerve all too easily stuck—the Saiyan's restraint faltered, a vicious anger flaring up on reflex to hurl the Heiress to the floor, as if to touch her seared his very flesh. Her shoulder hit the cold tile first, a jarring impact rushing through her bones to bruise hip and thigh as well, sending a painful wince across Bulma's gorgeous features. It took a moment to register what had happened, her world spinning in her head as her sense of place wavered to the thick pressure in her arm, and she realised she'd been thrown a few good meters when, slowly, her eyes cracked open again to blink back the tears.

A tense silence settled upon them as the blue haired women rolled to place a palm to the floor, shifting into a half-sitting position an holding herself up some to stare back at him. She could feel the uncomfortable patches of heat about her body, knowing they would hurt more as time went on, but with the chaotic whirlwind of emotions filling her, she could scarcely feel the damage done. The flame haired Prince stood halted as if frozen in place, a visible twitch coursing though taut muscle as he bit back on whatever urge tempted him. His lips pulled thin into a stoic line, that spark of hellfire in his dark eyes seemed to fade, leaving nothing but thick black smoke to coil there as his fists shook lightly by his sides. Flicking them a glance, Bulma even saw his toes curl, and it was frighteningly clear that he was fighting a very powerful instinct, if not a habit, in reaction to what she'd said.

For all their fights and banter, this was perhaps the closest to real danger she'd ever come, and she could taste it in the air around them—a foul uncertainty, seeping up through thin, cracked ice.

Regaining most of his composure, Vegeta drew a slow breath, willing frayed nerves to calm as he glared down at the woman on his floor. He held it briefly, waging his jaw some as he reflected carefully on what he wanted to say, and when he spoke it was barely more than a whisper, his dark eyes little more than murderous slits. "…If you _ever_ call me that again… accord or not, Woman, I will take your soul straight down to hell."

Bulma took to rubbing her abused arm lightly as she took that in, noting the odd reaction she'd seen—it wasn't like him to have such violent knee-jerk reactions to name calling, and privately, she wondered what the history behind that one in particular was.

Despite that though, she was in too far to back down, and still resolute in drawing that line in the sand, she continued with a firm but quiet reply. "You _murdered _my first love in cold blood, before trying to destroy my planet entirely. Realistically, Vegeta, I should have the right to call you whatever I want, and treat you with utter distain." She lifted her head up lightly, holding back her unease when she saw his lip curl into a sneer. "…But I try very hard not to, because I thought you deserved the opportunity to be even marginally better, given you never had a chance to be anything else before now... I leave those things in the past and focus on the future, instead, as much as I can."

Rubbing her nose with a small sniff, she glanced down at the floor to trace the tiled squares, adding to that thought musingly. "That's why I broke up with Yamcha. It was great when we were younger, but now we've hit the wall of it, and our future together doesn't look so great… that, and all my spare time was already signed over to you. But apparently, that still wasn't good enough."

She wasn't even sure if Vegeta was even listening anymore, caught in some internal war with himself over something as distant eyes kept track of her movements. His fists had relaxed now, hands flexing idle and unsure as if he didn't know what to be doing with them at present. Had he a tail, it would've been thrashing furiously behind him, bristled and fuzzed. He seemed to be studying her closely, as if seeing something he hadn't previously, but judging by the still present air of outrage boiling just beneath his surface, she doubted very much it was anything good.

With a defeated shrug she sighed, picking herself up slowly and wincing some for the discomfort. When she was on her feet again, she found her gaze tracing the numerous scars about his torso, and feeling slightly guilty now for how this had turned out, Bulma grimaced ruefully.

"…I'm sorry I'm such a disappointment to you, if you feel that way. But you're a pretty big disappointment yourself. I was going to install the upgrades tomorrow, either way, but at least now I know not to bother feeling satisfied with the job I'll do. You sure won't." With her anger steadily slipping through her fingers to be replaced by discontented regret, she was ready to resign herself to two and a half more years of lonesome, overworked misery with the Saiyan Prince and just give up any hope of improvement. "I just wanted a little more consideration, but fine. Be that way. I don't care anymore. You're never going to be better than Goku with that attitude anyway, if you treat your battles anything like you treat people."

"…Get out." He growled low, his gaze falling hatefully to the floor—whatever he was considering had been decided, and it was not in her favour at all. When she hesitated, staring at him a moment more, it was clear her presence in his room had suddenly begun to disturb him greatly, and hackles raised to her, scowling eyes snapped back upon hers. "**Out!**" he roared finally, and with a visible flinch, the woman was quick to take her leave of him, padding swiftly out through the kitchenette and headed for the ladder in retreat.

As the Prince stared at the space where she had been, his mind churned over what had been spoken here today, gauging whether or not this was beneficial to his advancement. When she had moved to strike him in anger, she had kicked and screamed and hated, more than that too, her true opinion of him had been shown. He didn't like it at all, unable to fully process why it bothered him so deeply. But as key phrases echoed in his head, sensitive ears still ringing with the pitch of them, he thought of an old enemy that held a startling resemblance in nature to that of Bulma Briefs.

It was evoked by little things she said, reminding him of an age gone by; _I open up my home… and you think you can just walk in and take over? News flash, Vegeta, this is not a planet you can just wander in and claim like the rest of them!_ The contentions of two very different races, inhabiting the same space; _barging in to dictate my affairs and judge my every move, holding me to task like a slave and demanding the world on a string! _The want of control, when strength was taken to task with technology; _throwing all the hard work we've put into this equipment in our face!_

Her weak power, that frail body, even the strange and ever changing hair. Her dependence upon and understanding of technology, her life in a bustling metropolis… the way she would order him about and think him an idiot for lacking the technical skill needed to maintain the gravity chamber himself. Her secret desires to see him become a submissive slave to her whim, and her brazen use of him as a weapon against the androids to secure her own survival.

Vegeta felt his stomach lurch when finally his epiphany ran its course, resulting in a disgustingly ironic conclusion as to who exactly he was forced to rely upon, cursed by such a dependency while in this uphill battle against fate…

The Woman reminded him of a Tuffle in almost every way.


	6. Calling for back Up

Chapter 6: **Calling for Back Up**

Standing amidst the usual clutter of her bedroom, soaked blue curls still dripping from a well-deserved hot shower, the reflection in Bulma's mirror was not kind to her as it whispered of a terrible truth.

Tired eyes stared back at her, roaming over pale flesh as it sat exposed with nothing more than a pink towel wrapped about her torso. The heat and steam had brought them out, awfully stained blotches of grey and yellow, with hints of purple blushing darkly over her thigh and upper arm.

Bruises from when she had been thrown.

She had expected them, she supposed, but not to this extent. The damage was done, and the proof of Vegeta's nature marked her very skin. She knew it wasn't that he'd openly tried to injure her. She knew also that she had not helped the situation, having snapped and tried to hit him as she had—what more could she have expected from the ruthless Prince, than at the very lest to be shoved.

As delicate fingers traced the markings carefully, echoes of their episode earlier that day whispered hollow through her mind. Something had changed. It was no longer simply banter, or a flare of temper. It wasn't hot-headed tiffs and arguments caused by stress. What he had said was personal, vindictive, and premeditated; tailored to trigger and hurt her emotionally. Overly the day, she had thought about it from every angle, wondering deeply of what had happened and removing herself from the situation to look at things honestly.

Psychological warfare was, where Vegeta—who had been forged into a weapon of genocide from childhood—was concerned, an awful precursor to the chance of very real danger.

No matter what she did, or how hard she tried, it was never good enough for him. It didn't matter what emotional state she was in—be she lonely, angry, bitter, or dead on her feet—he was there to belittle her, test her, and drag her through the mud even further. Perhaps, after the life he'd had, that was all he could offer others… a little share of his pain, so that he wouldn't feel as though his suffering was an isolated occurrence; a whipping boy to the worst of the universe.

She could understand, she supposed, that Vegeta's lack of care for others was simply an extension of the lack of care shown to him. But that didn't mean she would accept it, or offer herself up as a emotional punching bag. No matter how bad things were, or how terrible the demons in his head, the Prince simply did not have the right to destroy others in his pains.

Somehow, things had shifted so far as to lend malice to the strained relationship she kept with the Saiyan, without cause or provocation on her part that she really knew to place. For things to have slipped so far—despite every fraying thread between them she tried to ravel up—this was, even in her mercy, inexcusable.

This was the tip of an iceberg she could not allow herself of her family to crash upon, and it was _her_ mistaken kindness that could bring them harm, if the Prince continued down this path.

In the solemn silence of regret and disappointment, a subtle anger burning dim in her heart, the Heiress locked eyes with her visage in the mirror, knowing full well she'd done all she could to help him and somehow failed; no, that wasn't quite right. _He _had failed _her_. There was nothing more she could offer, if this was the very limit to what he would return. She would not have him here, if danger truly bubbled so closely beneath his surface that even after all the time she'd allowed him to put such things aside—tried to reach out to him, and give reason to do so—she came away with bruises like these; intentional or not.

Vegeta had to go, and he had to go tonight.

Glancing to her desk, still littered with notes and papers from the night before, she traced the curved outline of her cordless phone. She didn't want to have to call, but to evict the surly Saiyan and effectively cut him off from her hospitality—free her enslaved family, more like—she may need some support. It was almost a cheap shot, knowing how the Prince felt about his last surviving subject… but Bulma thought it was best to at least give a heads up to her old friend for the sake of her security, if not back up. Perhaps even some helpful advice or reassurance would help steel her resolve.

Tugging hesitantly at her towel as she sidled quickly between the waste paper basket and her swivel chair, Bulma reached out to let her hand hover uncertainly over the pink plastic of the phone. _No, Bulma, you have to. This is just one of those bullets we have to bite, and Vegeta has to learn he can't get away with this kind of behaviour on Earth. These things have to have consequences. _She sighed heavily, closing her eyes tightly to wince for the thought of telling him, but plucking up the courage her hand would snatch up the receiver and dial the number quickly.

As she held it to her ear, her free hand rising to allow a thumbnail to be chewed upon, she listened to the dial tone with some desperation and hoped to hell he'd be home for dinner by now. _Come on, pick up, pick up, pick up… Put the fork down and pick up…_

A moment of silence, and then came a youthful voice, polite though clearly distracted from something as he fumbled with his grip of the phone.

"Hello, Son residence, um… Who is speaking, please?"

Caught by it, Bulma smiled with some nostalgia, instantly eased by the youthful tone as she found herself charmed. "Oh wow, Gohan…" she breathed softly, a fond memory brushing her heart. "Have I ever told you that you sound just like your dad did at your age, kiddo?"

It was only then, hearing that familiar voice, that she truly realised how long it had been since seeing any of them. Months had gone by, achingly slow, like a small eternity since she'd seen Goku's smile or the twinkle in Gohan's eye. She rang Chichi every so often, but it wasn't the same as getting together. Her chest tightened ever so slightly for it, and suddenly, she knew how badly she'd missed them. "…How've you been?"

It took a moment for him to reply, as if wrapping his mind around who it could be before her statement hit its mark. "…Oh!" he perked up over the line, sounding suddenly brighter and more sure of himself. "Hello, Bulma. You sound really different over the phone… We're doing okay. Dad and I have been training with Piccolo, but the a few weeks ago we did take a short break. Mom made them both go to that driving school up in Central city, but neither of them actually got their licence, so… you can guess how well that went down…"

The Heiress blinked, almost entirely forgetting about the matter at hand. "What? Driving school? …Why?" she squinted with a light shake of her head—sometimes, she just didn't understand Chichi at all. "I've told her before, if she needs a lift into the city, I'd come and pick her up… I mean, come on, even if your dad _did_ drive, I wouldn't trust him enough to get in… why she'd send Piccolo too is just…. never mind."

As if the boy was simply used to accepting these things, he gave a carefree laugh on the other end. "Yeah, she was pretty upset about it. But Dad promised he'd try again soon when we have the money… he'll probably have to go to South city for it now, though." He paused, and when he spoke again, it wasn't filled with much confidence for Goku's success. "…He wasn't… _that_ bad… but at least he got some practice in, right?"

Bulma couldn't help but snicker at the thought, wondering if the driving school was even still intact. "…Sure, Gohan. I bet he'll do fine." She lied benignly, smiling to herself. "He sure doesn't give up easily, does he?"

"He's just doing it to make mom happy." He trailed off a little, somewhat awkward as the conversation died down, and Gohan fell back into habit. "Er, speaking of mom… she's a little busy doing the dishes right now, but… did you want me to get her for you? I mean, it is about time for her halfway break, anyway…"

Reluctant to remember the reason she'd called at all, Bulma hid her sigh from the receiver, taking fingers to a wayward lock of blue and toying with it for comfort. "…Well, actually Gohan… I was hoping to get a hold of your dad. Is Goku around, or…?" she held her breath nervously, biting her bottom lip. She really didn't want this conversation to happen, but she just didn't know what else to do, just in case things went awry.

Goku was the only one on Earth that could move Vegeta if he had to.

"Oh, really? Er, well… yeah, he is here, but… hold on, I think he's having a bath outside. I'll get him for you, if you want-"

In the background, Bulma heard Chichi's voice yelling out from the kitchen, faint and muffled over the line. "Gohan! Who's that on the phone? …It's nearly eight o'clock, who would ring at a time like this? Honestly, some people have no manners…"

Having set the phone down, the heiress heard the boy explain, sounding slightly flustered as he was put on the spot. "Mom, shh! The people on the other side can hear you when you're yelling like that! It's just Bulma, she wants to talk to dad about somethi-"

"Bulma? What would she be ringing Goku for at _this_ hour?" in the background, still distant, she heard the mood change, and the heiress swallowed for how obvious it seemed. "Oh _no_, I'll bet it's that Vegeta! Ugh! I knew it; I _knew_ he'd be trouble, right from the moment she invited him to live there!"

Pinching the bridge of her nose and holding her silence, Bulma ignored the other woman's opinion as best she could. Chichi began to go off on her own tirade, a screen door closing amidst the noise as Gohan went to fetch his father while trying to soothe his mother on the way. Though she wasn't entirely sure, it sounded as if a dish had broken as well, hard for the heiress to even hear it shatter as the housewife drowned it out with a biased string of verbalised thoughts. _Dropping plates from her high horse; yeah, that sounds like Chichi, all right…_

Waiting patiently for Goku's voice, blue eyes turned toward the glass of her sliding door, peering out over the balcony and searching the early stars. Her feet moved of their own accord, and feeling the harsh sting of judgement already from the way Chichi had snapped to and guessed the problem right away, the nightly chill didn't really do much to disturb her beside it. Bare feet padded softly over her balcony tile, phone dutifully cradled to her ear as Bulma leaned an elbow on the balustrade, tracing the outline of the gravity capsule in the darkness.

Vegeta hadn't left it since their altercation, so at the very least, she knew right where to find him… despite everything, though, somehow that saddened her. What must he be doing in there, with nothing else to his name but his regime of training? Did he soldier on stubbornly without the gravity anyway, relying on old fashioned push ups and a kata or two? Or did he just sit alone in the darkness, waiting for her to restore what he'd lost? Was it both; was it neither? Did he just stew in his thoughts and rage until it festered, turning into that flash of malice she'd seen in him today? When that notion swept her, she couldn't help but recall how very empty his eyes looked this morning, as if the fires that kept him alive had been doused by the fact that he was forced to be idle.

Pulling her back from her reverie, though, she heard movement on the line, a shuffle and a laugh as some comment Chichi made in the background was deflected. Bulma's ears twitched with the want to hear him, and she wasn't disappointed when she did, greeted by a happy tone that betrayed a smile—that lopsided grin she adored on him, in fact. She'd know it anywhere.

"Hey, Bulma! What's going on? It's not like you to ring me like this, I gotta say, I'm a little surprised!" he chuckled whimsically, and she heard a noise like a dog shaking water off its back, amused with the image it conjured.

"Goku, I'm the only one of us who _ever_ rings…" she shot back playfully, though her good mood as notably subdued. Her smile was weak as her gaze flickered over the ship below, but the longer she stared, the more it began to fade. "It's good to hear you're all doing well, anyway… Gohan told me about your escapades in driving school, you oaf. Just so you know, I'm never getting in any vehicle with you again." She laughed a little, but her heart wasn't really in it; with hesitation on the other side, she could tell Goku had picked up on that already. Sounding slightly more morose, she grimaced. "You sound good, Goku. I've missed hearing your voice… I only got to see you once since you got back from Namek… and since your brother came, before that."

His tone seemed to change so fluidly, it was like he'd matured fifty years in twenty seconds—she was right, a few years had gone by without really seeing each other, but to Goku it only felt like a few months. "Yeah…? I guess it really has been a long time… I wish I could say you sounded the same." It was offered lightly, the friendly vigour doused a little to become gentle and concerned, and she could imagine the slight furrowing of brows turning his happy face into a more serious one. "Is there something wrong, Bulma? You sound pretty worn out…" he trailed off slowly, waiting intently on the answer.

"Oh, Goku, you have _no_ idea…" she sighed heavily, letting her head fall forward into her hand and rubbing her forehead lightly. It was so great just to have somebody to listen—sure, her mother was always there and supportive, but the blonde had a nasty habit of getting distracted or off topic, not to mention interrupting, and sometimes these things just went over Pansy's head entirely. "I've had a pretty rough time lately… I've been run off my feet, in between all this work and the new vehicle line for dad, plus keeping up with the gravity chamber, but… This last week has just really done my head in."

Closing her eyes tiredly, she lulled in the comforting swirls of colour to be found there, drawing a deep breath and releasing it slowly. "I broke it off with Yamcha, first of all. I know it was pretty hard on the both of us, and I haven't had the guts to see or call him since, but it's final this time… There's no going back now, we're just too far past it. I'm sorry about that Goku, I know you were probably hoping we'd get married before the androids appeared, just in case…" she grimaced ruefully, trying not to think about the worst case scenario.

Surprisingly though, and with slightly inopportune timing, Goku seemed to brighten back to his usual cheeriness. With a loud laugh that she swore was a strange mixture of shock and excitement, if not some slight nervousness, her old friend chorused back with disconcerting optimism. "Wow, already? O-oh, I mean… Well, sorry to hear about it, Bulma, but… Hey, you know, it's all for the best! You just gotta keep on moving forward sometimes, even if it seems bad, because you just won't find something better until you try something new, right?" he chuckled again, more to himself this time, and it seemed suspiciously like the one he used to make when holding in secrets.

Whatever it was, he sounded almost _eager_, as if her ending things with Yamcha were a good thing or to be expected.

Unable to make sense of his reaction, the heiress shook her head, drawing the phone away and blinking at it strangely before placing it back to her ear. With and incredulous squint, Bulma looked up at the stars again, wondering if this was another of those 'being an alien' moments. "Goku, you're supposed to be surprised and _empathetic_, not encouraging about it! Two of your best friends just broke up and are going through a rough time of it! That's hardly a call for laughter!" she chastised patiently, frowning to herself and bemused by it all.

She found offence at something then, huffing as it snuck up on her. "…And what do you mean '_already'_?! What is there a betting pool I should know about or something?"

Curbing his enthusiasm quickly, an awkward noise hitched in his throat as Goku thought quickly on how to cover it—he never was very good at keeping secrets, but she just wasn't ready for this one yet. "N-no, no! Nothing like that, Bulma, uh…! Just… I just had… a… feeling?" another nervous laugh as he hoped the poor reasoning would be enough, but as she returned him with a tense silence, the Warrior was quick to rectify it further. "I mean… you and Yamcha have broken up before and, well… You're not exactly getting any younger or anything…"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?!" the line crackled with the force of it as Bulma glared at the phone, holding it in front of her with a grip that demanded answers.

"Nothing!" he said it so quickly it was nearly a squeak, wincing for it on the other end and pulling an evasive face. Settling a little, Goku gave a defeated sigh, knowing that he's have to tell her something—maybe not the whole truth, but he could certainly imply part of it. "Look, I don't know how to explain it, but really Bulma, I just _feel_ like… you know… maybe Yamcha wasn't _really_ going to end up… being the one you have a _family_ with. You should just keep your mind open, take things one day at a time, and before you know it you'll have a healthy bab—uh… balance… in your life." Though she couldn't see it, Bulma could sense him grinning.

Rolling her eyes, she couldn't help the smirk that flirted with her lips, and secretly she was grateful for his support—even if it was a little weirdly delivered. If Goku of all people could see that she and Yamcha were going down different roads, then she could rest assured she'd made the right choice. Oddly enough, she trusted Goku's judgement on most things, despite how naïve he could often seem. He had a knack for making the right call on little more than gut instinct, and when she thought about it, it made a lot of sense as to how he could manage to turn most fights around if ever the opponent gained the upper hand. He was just one of those lucky guys with a good sense of where everything should be at any given time, like a hidden wisdom in his simplicity.

"…Thanks Goku, that actually does help." She offered softly, her gaze wandering down to the gravity capsule once more, eyeing it warily and fighting back that feeling of disappointment. "But, honestly… That's not the reason I called. I think I might need your help with something… well, some_one_." It was careful, low and serious as Bulma steeled herself for the plunge, biting her thumbnail once again to form his name around it. "…It's Vegeta. I need him to leave."

On the other side of the line though, she heard Goku physically stumble, taken aback by what she'd said—sure, she expected he would be a little surprised, but Bulma didn't understand it at all when she thought she heard a sliver of panic to his tone.

"W-what!? Why? I mean, sure Bulma, I know Vegeta can be a little hard to deal with… but come on; he's not all _that_ bad, right? Give him a chance…? I bet you and him would get on like a house for hire, if you'd both just talk it out..." it was marginally close to pleading, careful enough not to annoy her but definitely an attempt to persuade her lenience. "Besides, you know he doesn't have anywhere else to go. I'd put him up and all, but Chichi… well, Piccolo has it hard enough just _training_ with us around here, I don't even wanna think about if Vegeta came…"

"It's 'house _on fire_', Goku."

"Huh? …Well that doesn't make sense, why would a burning house be good?"

Just about ready to give up, the heiress hung her head listlessly, giving a tired sigh and deciding to just put it all out there. "Look, I know all that, Goku, I do… But I've made up my mind already, and he can't stay here. I'm at the end of my rope… first Yamcha, then Vegeta, and the androids in a couple of years… me, sitting in the middle of it all, thinking about everything all the time and wondering if it'll all still be here when the smoke clears or if I've thrown away the last happiness I'll ever see! I can't do it, Goku… I just _can't_, okay? I'm done!" tensing up defensively while she said it, all of her fluster left her once she'd gotten it out, and despite herself, she felt a deep sense of despair tug at her heart.

"Bulma, you just have to give him some time—"

"No, I'm sorry, but Vegeta can't be here anymore. Not if he's going to be like this… I _tried_, Goku, I _really_ did—I've done everything for him; clothed him, fed him, given him a roof over his head… I've tried talking to him, I've tried staying out of his way… we've argued and I've _still_ run around after him, even though I was mad as hell. He never thanked me for it, or even apologise for starting a fight. I _always_ apologise if I accidentally offend him, and yet he goes out of his way to offend _me_. I've _been_ patient and _tried_ giving him time. I try to be understanding; make exceptions for him, put people I care about to one side in _favour_ of him! I've poured blood, sweat and tears into keeping the gravity chamber up to par with where he needs it, paying for most of it with my own profits and still having to pick up the slack on the side to be ready for this year's new vehicle line! All of the money _I_ earn out of that will probably go to fund _his_ training, as well! I've even saved his _life_, Goku!"

By the end of it she was close to tearing up, letting all of her pent up frustration bubble to the surface as her throat tightened further around every word, sending her pitch slowly higher. "I don't know what else I can do. I've tried everything, and he just throws it in my face like he can't stand the sight of me. He's blown a hole in the ship and blamed me for it, and after I spent the next day in my room a total mess, he's sneaking around in my room and spying on me in the night to make sure I'm still doing what _he_ wants! He set an alarm for me to wake up to, with no respect for my privacy or my feelings, and when I got up and had a go at him for it this morning, I end up getting thrown to the ground in between an outright attack on my character! Every nice thing I do gets rebuffed, and I can't keep taking the blows, Goku, I just can't. I've been trying hard not to let him get to me, thinking that's just how he is, but today was the last straw. It _is_ personal, and I need him gone!"

Holding back a reflexive sob as her throat began to sting, the Heiress blinked back her tears and took a moment to breathe, listening desperately for Goku on the other end and feeling her heart crack when there was only silence there. Did he not believe her? Did he not care, or he just overwhelmed by how upset she'd gotten over it? She hadn't intended on getting emotional about it, but Bulma simply couldn't help it. She was drowning in the torrents, here, tossed about by too many things weighing on her at once.

Looking at the receiver hopelessly, she sniffled some, desperate to hear him say something, anything, in response. "…Goku?"

A sudden rush of warm air licked at her skin from behind, fleeting with a static tingle of energy about it that seemed to settle in the roots of her hair. She jumped a little, blinking for not expecting the odd sensation, but as she whipped her head around to see her old friend standing there and pulling two fingers away from his brow, some of that loneliness and despair washed away. As Bulma turned on her heel to face him in full, setting the phone down on the balcony's edge slowly, a weak smile returned with a comforting sense of relief to settle her. One hand drifted to hold her towel in place as she drank in the sight of him, from the look of concentration left on his face to the sodden spikes of his hair—she realised now why he hadn't answered her on the phone. Fresh out of a bath himself, he'd had to take a moment to find and put on some pants, made obvious for the fact she could still see drips of water over his bare chest.

Letting his hand fall away from his forehead, he would settle it then on her shoulder calmly, taking a moment to look her over and noting how tired and run down she seemed. Goku was quick to offer her a smile, a gentle thing laced with all the concern of a brother, still happy to see her though subdued for her plight.

"Hey, come on. Don't sell yourself short, Bulma… We both know you're a lot tougher than you look." He tilted his head a little, perking a brow as the private and lopsided smile held. "You're going to be just fine, all of us are. The future isn't going to be anywhere near like he said it would be, and we're all working hard to make sure of that, even you. I know it's tough, but everything's going to be okay... You'll see."

It was hard not to believe him when he spoke like that, so quietly sure with a knowing gleam in his eye; full of life and the modest confidence that things would always turn out for the better… and to his credit, he was usually right. Even if he had to fix it himself, the warrior could always turn a bad situation into a happier one. When Goku was around, Bulma naturally felt safer, as if the world made just a little more sense to live in. Staring up at him with a weary smile, blue eyes wavered over his features grateful that she'd called—it was like even the sight of him was enough to give her back some hope.

"…I hope so." She conceded softly, her gaze dropping to her feet a moment. "But right now, I just can't handle it, whether it'll all turn out in the end or not… two and a half more years of feeling like this? I need a break from it, Goku… I almost can't believe I waited until this point to end things between me and Yamcha, but I just had to do it. I couldn't keep dragging it out, just because we might… especially if we might be… well, you know… dead." She took a shaky breath then, filling her lungs with the cold night air and giving a slight shiver for it. "You're right, the future isn't going to be like that kid said, but I guess I still worry. I mean… anything could happen now. Something totally unexpected could come up that changes everything, and we might do even worse this time around. It's just that climb of not knowing, and getting closer to that unknown every day… it's just about doing my head in, Goku, let alone Vegeta making things worse than they have to be."

He took it in with a nod, trying to understand where she was coming from—though he wouldn't bring it up with her now, the truth was, Goku really didn't know how to make her feel any better about the upcoming battle. There wasn't all that much more he could do than offer reassuring words and encouragements, hoping they might distract her away from the fear and uncertainty she was haunted by. _He_ was looking forward to fighting the androids, and even with the looming threat of dying early from the heart virus, his optimism hadn't dimmed. Trunks had given him the vaccine either way, and he felt fit as a fiddle; he hadn't gotten so much as a cold in years. Not to mention he had made some excellent strides in the last few months, as had Gohan. Even from here, he could sense Vegeta's growing strength as well, and he was certainly impressed by the Prince's progress so far—when he stopped to imagine what everyone would be like when the three years were up, frankly, Goku couldn't wait to see May twelfth arrive.

He knew Bulma did not share his enthusiasm, having wanted to avoid the whole thing by using the dragonballs to prevent it. Still, there were a few things that needed to happen for everything to be going smoothly, and unfortunately Trunks' birth was one of them, which meant Vegeta had to be living at the compound…

But as Goku's lively gaze took in the sight of Bulma's bruising, able to see them clearly enough though she probably thought they were hidden by the darkness, he knew he had to intervene. He wasn't really sure about how exactly these two were going to get together, but it was clear to him that _this_ was headed in the opposite direction, and more than that, he didn't like hearing of Vegeta's behaviour toward his friend. She didn't deserve it at the worst of times, let alone when she was going to be the mother of his child not too long from now.

_Maybe Trunks' coming back changed a couple of things he didn't expect? After all, I guess in the future, Bulma and Vegeta never knew the androids were coming; none of us did… chances are, she probably wouldn't have been as stressed out in that timeline as she is now, since she knows what could happen if we don't do enough to prepare. Vegeta too, that's right! He was told he was going to die as well, wasn't he? Well, that explains why he'd be even more unfriendly than usual…he's probably just scared of wasting any time._

Whatever the case, he had to push this in the right direction again… and the key to it lay with Vegeta. _Once he loosens up a bit, Bulma will follow suit and everything else will fall into place, too._

With a light nod to himself, Goku let his hand fall away from her shoulder, crossing his arms and tapping a finger to his chin thoughtfully as he studied the gravity capsule from afar. "Listen, Bulma… I know Vegeta isn't exactly the easiest guy to manage, but if anybody can, it's you. You're right, how he's been treating you is out of bounds and you've got every right to be angry. I am sorry he's been giving you such a rough ride… but there _is_ something better in him. I've seen it. He might like to pretend he's made of stone, and sure, he's an impossible kind of guy, but that's not _all_ there is to him." He frowned lightly, glancing at her with a serious air. "I'll go and talk to him. Give him one last chance, Bulma, and then if you still can't stand him he can stay at my house."

As he saw her gorgeous features falter back into the unsure frown, incredulous of him, he lightened some to scratch the back of his head and offered Bulma a guilty grin. "…Chichi won't like it, and I can't guarantee Vegeta will take the invitation… but I guess if it really keeps being that bad, you can lend him a capsule house and we'll figure something out; promise! Just let me see if I can sort him out first." He gave a pleading look, bringing his hands up before him in a begging motion. "We really are gonna need him to be at his best, and whether he likes it or not, for that to happen he needs your help, Bulma. I'll bet it's just a pride thing, you know, and I'm pretty sure Vegeta'll come around with a little bit of a push… Please?"

Listening to Goku try to assuage her decision, the heiress couldn't help but bite the inside of her cheek, knowing he'd be disappointed if she held firm. It was nice to know that, though he really was pulling for her and Vegeta to work through these issues coming up, he had also offered the option of taking the Saiyan on himself if things kept going awry. She couldn't deny that he was right, though she was loathe to admit it at present—she had said so herself when fighting the Prince earlier, holding it over him that her aid and work would be the key to his unlocking the Super Saiyan power he sought. Without the gravity machine and her to keep it up to speed for him, Vegeta would soon flounder in his struggles to push his limits, without the means for a challenge to do so, and surely stagnate in a slow uphill battle. She knew there was no way he'd join the others to spar. The Prince was resolute in his creed to train alone, and having attempted to watch him in the past—worried for his health—Bulma knew how uncomfortable Vegeta was having others witness his techniques before he had them just right.

The Prince's regime was very much trial and error; the tempered stains of a perfectionist at work, who swept his failures under the rug never to be seen and presented only the clean and polished product of his labours to the public eye.

In that respect, he was not unlike herself, when it came to her work for the corporation—Bulma's lab was her haven, and those that entered it were as carefully chosen as the disciples of the holiest temple on Earth.

Placing hands to her sides as if to ward of a stiff back, blue eyes wavered over her old friend with reluctant trust, and Bulma knew she couldn't deny him. If Goku really could put Vegeta back in his place enough that she saw a notable change in his attitude, then she supposed the least she could do was put up with him for just a little while longer… if only as a strict favour to Goku. Inclining her chin low, lips pulled into a thin line of resignation, Bulma drew a slow breath through her nose as she eyes her old companion seriously.

"…One more bruise, Goku, and he's gone. I don't care whether he means it or not, even if I provoked him, he needs to have more restraint than that. I won't live with him if I know he can't control his own strength when he snaps." With a frustrated sigh, she shook her head, turning away from her friend to look down at the ship below. "I can understand him shoving me back, if I'm really going to be honest with myself about what happened, but lately he's been making a bit of a habit about laying hands on me. Sure, it's just little things, like grabbing my wrist or getting up in my face, but when he threw me down it was different… I don't think he meant to put that much force into it. An accident on Vegeta's part could mean the death of somebody, and I won't stand for it in my home."

"If he can reign in his temper and get a little respect, we'll be golden. I know he's got good in him, Goku, but he needs to start showing it. I can't keep looking the other way when we both know damn well how dangerous he could be if he wanted to, especially when he _does_ become a Super Saiyan." Glancing back over her shoulder, the look on Goku's face spoke volumes—he knew she was right, accepting it all with a slightly sorry grace and resolute in adjusting the Prince's behaviour as well. "…I don't want to have helped him become the next threat, when the androids are gone and he decides to go after you next."

"…I know, Bulma." He conceded quietly, holding her gaze with a perceptive frown. He was more than aware of Vegeta's promises to finish the battle they had started here, but with the threats they faced, it was just something they had to put aside for now. Goku was between a rock and a hard place when it came to the Prince, surely, but for the moment he had no other choice—they needed all the help they could get, every one of them, and he could only try to sway Vegeta away from his vindictive grudge one act at a time. "But we'll just have to cross that bridge when we come to it. I'm hoping he'll come around before that point… but even if he doesn't, his grudge against me should never concern how he treats _you_."

As he said it, his feet began to lift off of the balcony tile to see him float in the air behind her, intent on going down to see the surly Saiyan and turn this around while he still could. "Go and get some rest, Bulma. He's not happy to see me at the best of times, so I think it's best if I'm in and out quickly… if over the next week, he's still causing trouble, gimme a call and I'll be back in a flash." Floating over the balustrade and out into the night air, he sent her one last smile, saluting her casually as he went. "…It was good to see you again."

"Thanks, Goku." She smiled back tiredly, giving a light nod and watching as her old friend descended down into the darkness enshrouding the Prince's lair.

…_And good luck._

**A/N:**

**This is basically the first half of the chapter in full, because the next chapter is part two with Goku confronting Vegeta.**

**I've already written a little bit of that part, but when I was reading it back, I felt it was better to have a break here. The atmosphere changes pretty dramatically, and I think it's better to have this half be reflective of Goku and Bulma's relationship (with its own atmosphere to add to that) while the next be reflective of Vegeta and Goku's rivalry instead.**

**This bit with Bulma has a much lighter, softer feel, and a lot of warmth, and it kind of started to bleed into Vegeta's part and take away from some of the edge there at first. I want to keep them separate so the full effect (and the drastic switch in atmosphere) can be seen in contrast for how Vegeta and Bulma interact with Goku, and to make the switch in focus from Bulma's POV to Vegeta's cleaner and easier to read.**

**Also, Cabellosdefuego brought up the fact that Bulma seemed guilty in the end of the last chapter, and I'm sorry if it seemed that way to other readers—that's my fault for writing tired. She's bitter and worn out, and her reaction was supposed to imply that she'd had enough and just wasn't going to bother anymore where Vegeta was concerned, because it just wasn't worth it.**

**Luckily, this chapter did allow me to expand on how she feels about it, so it should be a little more clear now.**

**Onwards to Glory!**


	7. Breaking Ranks

Chapter 7: **Breaking Ranks**

Through the gaping hole left in the gravity capsule's door, the sounds of the evening drifted softly; a lonely thing graced by the rustle of trees and the breath of crickets, whispering of vulnerability and leaving the Prince open to the nightly chill…

And any visitor that decided to step through it.

Vegeta was already well aware of Goku's presence before the Warrior appeared at his door. Having sensed his low class expatriate appear suddenly with little warning, the Prince had resigned himself to waiting for him. He took to sitting in the darkness, away from the door with his back to the centre console, leaning against it in cold apathy and knowing the other Saiyan would join him soon enough.

Their ki told him enough; the little harpy and him. A sharp dive in Bulma's mood had been obvious from the moment he'd cast her off of him, the annoying whine of her spirit faintly ringing in his bones to entertain a sense of frustration, mingled upon sadness and anxiety. It was all too easy for him to track the Woman's emotions, wearing them on her sleeve as she did, with no concept as to how she might steady her energy and hide them. Vegeta did not need to spy, nor eavesdrop on her phone call, to know that she was the one to bring Kakarot here. Her distress was tangible as it spiked not minutes before, dropping off sharply the moment her old friend had joined her. From that point onward, Vegeta had lost track of the Earth Woman's ki entirely, squashed as it was under the deep thrum of her lapdog, no doubt come to the rescue in an effort to placate her tantrum.

Floating casually in through the warped metal opening and setting bare feet upon the cold tile, a few silently padded steps inward saw the Earth-raised Saiyan make his uninvited entrance.

Picking up the fresh scent of the other Saiyan behind him easily as it filled the air, the Prince could guess he'd be readily chastised for obviously upsetting the Heiress, offended by the smell of him as it invaded the comforting musk his own toils had left here. He could practically _taste_ Kakarot's tension as the Warrior gave off a prelude of what was to come in waves—a firm sense of conviction, subtle anger and most sickening of all, _concern_.

Refusing to look back at him, a calm tone slithered low to the Prince's ear as Goku spoke behind him, his gaze burning holes in the back of Vegeta's head. "…It's been a while, Vegeta. You're already a lot stronger than I'd expected you to be by now." It was so curtly given it almost pained one to hear it; the tiny spring of a leak before a dam burst and washed all else away. "I can tell you've improved way beyond what you were on Namek."

Vegeta recognised the timbre in his voice, the self same one Kakarot often used in battle, when underestimated or unimpressed with his opponent's conduct.

"Save it, Kakarot." He hissed back with venom, sneering to himself bitterly in the darkness and unwilling to even take in the sight of his rival, staring ahead to the port window instead and focussing upon the dim stars. "We both know you're leaps and bounds ahead of me. If it's all the same, I'll do without your conciliatory regards of _sportsmanship_." Leaning elbows upon his knees, the Prince's fists tightened silently, reining back his offence for such careless coaxing—it appeared the idiot still held firm to his hopes of camaraderie.

_Just like the Woman, _he thought then, scoffing for it privately; _neither of them can take the hint and just leave well enough alone._

Deciding to maintain some distance between them for the surly sovereign's sake, Goku shifted with a sigh, tucking a thumb into the hem of his track pants and glancing over what he could see of the Saiyan from behind the console. Vegeta was as difficult as ever, he supposed, almost having forgotten how blunt the man could be—it was little wonder Bulma had reached her limits with him. The Heiress wasn't all that patient to begin with, and secretly, Goku marvelled at how much her character had improved with age. She'd taken more in stride from Vegeta than he'd ever seen her put up with before, and the warrior had a new found respect for his old friend in that. But then, he supposed, she was used to swallowing a few hardships when it came to men, and almost sad for it Goku knew that Yamcha's flirtatious behaviour had a lot to do with her maturing temperance.

Hardening from the slightly boyish charm his features usually held, a light frown betrayed the business at hand as Goku gave an uncaring roll of his shoulders. "Alright, Vegeta, have it your way… I'll get straight to the point." Inclining his head toward the Prince slowly, it was very faint, but a sliver of anger slipped into his tone with warning. "What exactly happened here today?"

Vegeta didn't miss it either, though it brought a cynical curve to his lips—Kakarot was in no mood to be dismissed without answers. At that, his head finally turned, a sidelong glance sent across the way to meet the Warrior's gaze evenly; perhaps even daringly. "So you _are_ here to rescue the damsel in distress... how noble of you." He sniped back, the barest hint of a chuckle rumbling from his throat as he shifted, moving slowly to stand and lifting himself up from the console. Toned arms crossed casually over his chest, hiding a few scars as bare hands all but vanished from sight.

Expecting as much, Goku held his ground firmly, the lightest grimace ghosting across his mouth. Remarkably though, as his eyes narrowed upon the Prince's visage in the darkness, they seemed dulled and without their usual warmth. A strangely belligerent cock of his head was given to his supposed superior, and in that moment perhaps, the pair truly were two Saiyans facing each other down as the air thickened around them with tension.

"She's my friend, Vegeta. I don't like seeing her upset at the best of times…" Goku offered it slowly, a simple truth shared quietly between them, though when he continued, a note of spite twisted it into something else entirely. "…and I _definitely_ don't like the bruises _you_ left on her." He saw the Prince's eyes widen a fraction for it, and Goku chanced a low growl, chasing down the reaction he wanted. "I was under the impression you were _better_ than that… you might be a lot of bad things, Vegeta, but I never pegged you for a _liar_."

It shot through the space between them like a flaming arrow, heated and precisely aimed to draw the Prince out of his evasion and into defence—Goku was not one to be bitter or taunt others in anger, but he knew well where Vegeta's triggers were. One did not insult his heritage or his ranking, or call negative attention to either his height or his strength, and certainly not his lost tail without instigating his ire…

But the Prince's sense of honour was a strange and flexible thing when backed into a corner by pride, and Goku intended on taking full advantage of it.

"What was that!?" the Saiyan snapped fiercely, affronted by such a statement, least of all from Kakarot himself. It was certainly no mild accusation, in the face of his agreement with the Woman… perhaps, within himself, he could admit that he did bend it some when casting her aside, but he knew for a fact that it held. He'd brought no harm to her other than a bump on the arse, and seeing as it was a response to _her _pathetic attempt to be violent, she should be counting her lucky stars that it was all she endured.

The very audacity that she or Kakarot had, to call his honour into question over something so ridiculously trivial, left him furious. Wide eyed with a hateful glare, his arms were quick to his sides, fists shaking with the want to smack the very words from the Warrior's mouth as he roared back.

"I _**barely**_ touched her, you insipid charlatan! How _dare_ you try to spit that at me; she was the one trying to strike _me, _she should be grateful to _know_ such clemency! I suppose you'll next be telling me that I'm to simply accept it, and let her have a free slap every once in a while in generosity!?"

Tensing up at the sight of such aggression, Goku took a step forward, thrusting out a hand and gesturing with some authority to yell—he knew this could quickly turn into blows.

"Cool it, Vegeta!" he returned firmly, his volume rising to match that of the Prince, a strange scowl darkening his features in turn. "The deal was _**not**_ to touch her _at all_, if you really wanna play it that way! You can't keep creeping over these lines! _Don't_ grab her by the wrists, _don't_ push her out of your way, _don't_ invade her personal space and _don't_ keep making these threats when you've sworn you wouldn't hurt her! You can't just keep running her down like this, Vegeta, all she wants to do is help you!"

"She doesn't want to help me; she wants to _control_ me, just like she does the rest of you spineless _**idiots**_!" Like a shockwave built of his fury, a swirl of ki flared about tanned skin and rushed outward with the volume of it, bringing hair to stand on end with a static tingle and rattling the port windows with the force.

"You're a _disgrace_, Kakarot! Ordered about by a woman whose power level couldn't be more than _five_…! She's nothing but a spoiled and disrespectful _sow_, requiring the worship of everyone around her without doing a damned thing to earn it for her self! Look at you; come running to her beck and call like some miserable errand boy, conned by a few tears into fighting her battles _for_ her! Have you no shame at all?! She's no better than a Tuffle, using us Saiyans for their hard labours and thinking nothing more of us than slaves and pets, too primitive to survive without the _grace_ of their technology! I _won't_ have it, damn you, I bow to _**no**_ _**one**_!"

Taken aback to see the Prince so incensed—over what seemed like just sticking up for a friend—so much so that a burst of his own energy escaped his control, gave Goku pause. He might not have any idea what a Tuffle really was, though he was certain he'd heard it mentioned before—King Kai sounded about right for it, and in the back of Goku's mind he vaguely recalled that a war between Tuffles and Saiyans apparently took place before he was born. Whatever the case, the Prince didn't care for them and it sounded as if he was justified in his sour opinion… but for some reason he seemed to be drawing rather vindictive parallels between the Bulma and this old enemy race. Loathe as he was to admit it, in a startling turn, the Heiress seemed to be spot on the money when she'd worried for the danger posed by her houseguest. This kind of slipped ki control wasn't like Vegeta at all, and forced to step back when the brunt of energy had hit him, the Warrior could only stare in concern for it as he realised how bad a risk the Prince had actually become.

Vegeta had _certainly_ gotten stronger. His progress was almost surprising, but it was all too clear why—as Goku remembered where they stood—the meticulous technique and energy management Vegeta usually commanded wasn't there to back it up… in such a hurry to attain his new strength as he pushed himself in the gravity, the Prince was going for broke and gaining raw power too quickly. Suddenly getting far more return for his efforts than ever before, he had not yet acclimatised to it, and probably didn't even realise how much might he'd gained. It was also very likely that he'd been neglecting his mental exercise in favour of physical, making it even harder to temper his new strength and conversely, much easier to misjudge it. It was making more sense now—Bulma somehow knew it already, but Vegeta hadn't yet realised just how much stronger he was swiftly becoming, and as Goku knew very well, one's feel for levels of restraint were based on trial, error and habit-forming.

Vegeta would've had no idea how hard he'd actually thrown her, and for that, Goku had to give him the benefit of the doubt.

As the Prince snarled the last of it, the spikes of his hair bristling and his hackles raised near ready to launch himself at the other warrior, Goku seemed to soften, drawing back to tuck hands in his pockets in a point of dismissing any violence to come. A long sigh left him, rolling slowly from his lips as the Saiyan shook his head, closing his eyes to the scowling image of Vegeta and taking on a surprisingly fatherly tone. "Listen, Vegeta, I don't know about all that Tuffle stuff, but whatever it is, you've got to let it go."

"Tch… No, of course _you_ wouldn't…" allowing his rage to devolve back into its poisonous spite, Vegeta visibly relaxed some, though kept sharp teeth bared toward his rival to mutter sneeringly. "Only a _true_ Saiyan would remember such a thing… the mightiest warriors in the Galaxy, and yet it seems somebody is always trying to rule us. No sooner had my Father freed us of one tyranny did the Arcosians deliver us another…. Never again. I won't be ordered about like a child; not by you, not by the Namek, not by that punk from the future and _especially_ not by the Woman!"

"Why do you have to be like that!?" the Warrior cried in a fit of pique, gritting his teeth in frustration for how stubborn the Prince could be and raising his shoulders defensively.

With a flash of an old and unabated hatred that both men knew to be well justified, Vegeta would level a calloused finger toward his rival, a deathly hiss seething out of him. "Mark me, Kakarot. I spent my entire life under Frieza's heel, only to have _my_ rightful vengeance snatched away from me by a tail-less, Earthbound low class—with no more idea of his origins than a rock thrown into a riverbed—whose pitiful sense of mercy _not only_ led to an _unfinished_ job, but the mockery of our race's most respected and feared form!" distain tainting his regal features to twist them into something feral and wild, he withdrew his hand sharply, lifting his head high as if weathering a great insult. "I will _**not **_come away from that a whipping boy to some overly pampered, blue haired _tramp_ who can't even summon the enthusiasm to clean her damned room!"

Largely unaffected by the belittling of his own claim to such heritage, Goku stifled a pained grimace to settle the Prince with a patient though weary look, groaning in the back of his throat. He toyed with the thought of bringing up the Prince's final wish that a Saiyan defeat Frieza, but tucked it back into the less used and dark corner of his head—a part of him sincerely regretted not finishing off the tyrant, especially when he had promised Vegeta that much, but there was simply no helping that now.

He had empathy enough to understand where the Prince was coming from, certainly, left without a satisfying sense of closure. Goku could recall the sense of loss at Krillin's death clearly, and that awful snapping point of wanting so badly to take revenge for it—he could only imagine how much more Vegeta must feel of that, having lost all that he had ever held important. Pride was, indeed, the only thing that remained for him to inherit, alongside the hope that one day he would become a Super Saiyan; Goku had already wounded his pride. It was only natural that Vegeta would feel compelled to take Super Saiyan back.

The both of them knew that he was meant to die there on Namek, basically ripped from the grave on a technicality, and if Goku could do nothing else, he would endure Vegeta's grudge for the simple fact that the man needed something to transfer his hatred onto until it dissipated with time. The Prince could not be without something to drive him and compete against, an opponent or an oppressor to blame, a goal set and struggled to in anger and agony, for he had never known to live without it.

Goku could never let Bulma become the target of such an ill obsession, regardless of Trunks' being born.

Furrowing his brows disapprovingly, the Warrior tightened his fists to grip the sides of his track pants, subtly releasing some of his stress there. "Well, whatever you _think_, the fact is Bulma doesn't 'require' anything from you other than a 'thank you' here and there. She's not trying to make a slave out of you, or lord anything over you… she's not using you as a weapon to fight the androids on her behalf, either, so give it a break, Vegeta. The truth is she'd be more comfortable _not_ letting you use her equipment at all, because she's terrified that once the androids are gone, you'll turn around and become the next big threat."

_Perceptive little gnat, when the mood strikes her, _Vegeta mused internally, unsurprised—then again, he had fed her so many threats that way inclined, the Woman probably assumed it was a given thing; his destroying the Androids only to replace them. Indeed, at the very least, he had every intention of going after Kakarot when that time came… whether the others were foolish enough to step in and get themselves killed was none of his concern.

Still, he was slightly incredulous of the claim that she was 'terrified'—because who in their right mind, when scared of somebody, comes storming into their room screeching like a banshee and then tries to hit them?

If Bulma had one redeemable feature the Prince had noticed, it was courage.

Vegeta would scoff distastefully, turning his head away in some disgust for his statement and waving a dismissive hand. "Yes, because Frieza descending upon this rock with the intention to kill everything on it had her running for the hills." He spat sarcastically, not fond of the irony as his arms folded themselves over his chest once more. "If she were fearful of me in the slightest, she'd have sewn her lips shut by now, knowing what's good for her… and let's not forget that she _did _attempt to strike me today. It's all part of her games, but unfortunately for her, the one that wins is the one that hits the hardest. She'd have been begging to be _rid_ of me if she held to such trepidations, truly, instead of sending around one of her sycophants to try and get me to play nicely. Too bad I'm in no mood to let her win."

"She _is_ begging to be rid of you." He could stand no more of it; holding it in as Vegeta continued to berate and deride, and suddenly coming out with it, Goku watched the Prince's form seize. It was subtle, but with his keen eyes in the darkness, he caught it anyway—stillness took him over, frozen in place as if royal blood ran cold with the revelation. Softening some, Goku continued quietly, a lazy swing of his hands giving a lack lustre shrug. "That's why she called me tonight. She wanted my help in making you leave, because she didn't think you'd take her seriously and actually go if she told you to."

A strange silence settled upon them then, the truth lingering around them as a chilled breeze floated through, bringing with it the distant sounds of the rustling trees once more. It was an awkward thing, as Vegeta glanced back toward Goku with an odd sense of disbelief ghosting faintly in his eye, the lightest twitch of his brow holding back the bemusement from his scowling features. Though the Prince seemed to search him, silently demanding an answer for it, the Warrior found comforting distraction in tracing the cracks upon the tiles beneath; bare toes curling autonomously.

As the sovereign stood lost for words, questions flashing briefly across his visage and then disappearing as Vegeta's own mind answered them reluctantly, Goku modestly placed a hand on his bicep and let his fingers drum there with a withdrawn sense of conclusion. "…Look, I get it. Things obviously got heated, and you're both as feisty as ever; we've all got a lot on our plates right now, and a long way to go. You didn't _intend_ on harming her, but the fact is you did… When I said you'd gotten stronger, I _meant_ it, Vegeta. I know you're gaining a lot of power pretty quickly, and that's great, but you have to keep it in check."

The Prince's gaze fell away from him quickly as Vegeta turned away, taking a few absent steps as his arms crossed more tightly, like a barrier to ward off the world. Staring down at the console controls, he thought back on all he'd done thus far, and again, unwanted flashes of memory haunted him. Again he saw her face; long lashes barely hiding the darkness about her eyes from how long she'd spent awake at his bedside. He heard the metallic twang as the droids redirected his attacks back to him, an ever present hum from the gravity generator vibrating through the floor beneath. The blinding flash, and the smoke; the smell of his own burnt flesh and stale blood… sweat, twisted metal and sharp rubble slicing through even the thickest of his skin. Fumes from the thankfully empty fuel tanks as they hung heavy about the ruins with that pungent chemical scent, and the desperate worry in _her_ voice as it pierced the tainted air to find him in it.

Vegeta knew—within himself—it was his lack of control, a new well of strength unleashed too soon and too furiously in desperation, which had set off the explosion that day. It wasn't Bulma's handiwork, or her father's engineering, that were flawed. It was his own folly that had almost seen him killed. Now it seemed both Kakarot and the Woman were beginning to see the truth of why it had happened, where he had blinded himself to it in denial. He was cutting corners in his regime, a desperate bid for what he hoped would bridge the gap between himself and Super Saiyan status faster.

Of its own accord, his hand rose to brush calloused fingertips across the control panel, tracing the number pad which already had several buttons faded from how many times he had pressed them. Tilting his head slowly to one side to catch the other warrior from the corner of his eye, Vegeta steeled himself from such thoughts, schooling his features into a scowl bereft of any real emotion. Were Bulma here, she would've seen it and taken note—once again he was the shell, hollow and dulled as the fire left his gaze to let nothing through.

There were many acidic remarks he could've given then, a thousand of them whirling ready in his head like a hurricane, but not a single one of them—he thought—seemed more potent than a cold silence.

Through it all and much to his chagrin, innocent of the Prince's internal happenings yet somehow painfully aware, Goku continued on with all the semblance of an old friend passing on advice as he gestured humbly to himself. "I know how it feels… you think you've got a hold of it, and you don't realise you haven't until a glass shatters in your hand or a door comes of its hinges… or until you accidentally hurt somebody you shouldn't." he gave a weak shrug, knowing it couldn't really be helped if Vegeta did not respond, and flashed a slightly guilty look as he brought a hand up to ruffle his own spiked hair.

"She just doesn't want anybody to die, Vegeta. Not even you… but she can't take any more abuse; emotional or otherwise. I've gotten her to give you one last shot… and given this _is_ her gravity machine," he waved a hand at there surrounds casually, looking upwards to the roof of the spherical design. "It really _wouldn't_ kill you to be just a little bit nicer to her."

Though he endured the withering glare, cold and empty thing that it was, in the vague hope that he may have reached Vegeta enough for even a curt nod of dismissal, Goku waited a good moment or two for a response. Something, _anything_, a deliberate blink might have done well enough… but the hope was soon snuffed out as the Prince held his bitter reticence.

With a defeated sigh, knowing there was nothing more to say or do, the warrior relented. A private sense of pathos washed over him, as if Vegeta's eyes could suck the very life from his flesh if he remained, and quietly, Goku turned to take his leave of him. Bare feet made little noise as he made his way back toward the warped metal of the forced opening, but as he reached the threshold to lean his hand against the side, the warrior took pause, scanning the night sky above and offering one last thing with a solemn tone—he could only hope the stubborn Saiyan would listen.

"I know you've got your own way of training and all, but I'd _really_ suggest you spend a week or so catching up on the mental side of things. You've got plenty of time to get stronger, Vegeta, but it won't mean a thing if you can't handle it properly. I shouldn't have to tell you that, and for your pride, I'm sorry… But I'm not going to be able to talk her around again. If she decides you're out, you're _out_… androids coming, or not."

Vegeta didn't look back when the words left him, unable to do so as a strange twist of shame clawed at his chest. "…Tell me first, Kakarot, before you leave…" Barely above a whisper, his voice almost completely lacked its gravelled timbre, a small and candid thing as it lilted between them. "…Am I even close?"

"The way you're going about it now… You'll never have it."

And with the rustling of the leaves, he was gone.

**A/N:**

**Serious Goku is serious.**

**Now I just feel kinda bad for Vegeta, but it's for his own good, damn it. Sometimes he just needs to be told… But I feel for him all the same, and Goku's right. I'm glad I separated those chapters too, now that they're done. On one hand, we get to see the very Earthling side of Goku and his friendliness and bond with Bulma, with some of that boyish charm and innocence. In this one, he's the warrior and comrade, very much more the Saiyan in him that he's coming into.**

**I always hate (aside from humour stories of course) how many times I've seen Goku portrayed as a clueless and totally hapless idiot that bounces around like a kid on prozac and icecream. Sure he has his moments, but when it come to fighting he's a genius, and he's got a good sense for people as well—generally, Goku was always pretty cluey about the important things, and he was always serious if need be.**

**We could all use a friend like Goku.**

**Onwards to Glory!**


	8. The Calm Before the Storm

Chapter 8: **The Calm before the Storm**

The morning sun was warm upon her back as it shone down from a cloudless sky, uplifting as the Heiress sat on her balcony to enjoy it, taking in a well earned cigarette. The gentlest breeze swept the smoke of it away from her, languid curls lightly dancing in its wake... Blue eyes were slightly brighter for a long sleep, now matching the crisp colour of the flawless sky above, though she knew she wasn't as fresh as the lush green grass below. Still, the open air was filled with warmth and the lyrical sweetness of singing birds, holding a tender note of peace and perfection that Bulma couldn't ignore in her solitude.

It truly was a perfect day, and for that, she knew something was going to go wrong very soon. It was like the calm before a raging storm.

_Well, let's just enjoy it while we can, Bulma, _her mind soothed, a faint smile playing upon her lips as she thumbed through a magazine, a casual flick given toward the glass ashtray.

Scanning the pages with mild interest, she made a mental list of the clothes she liked, and was quickly deciding that sweetheart necklines were making a comeback, while pink remained out of the question this year. A sigh left her for that, dressed as she was currently in the comfort of her hideously pink nightgown, and grimacing Bulma decided against revitalising her wardrobe just yet. It wasn't like she was going anywhere, and Vegeta's upkeep sucked all the life out of any thoughts for shopping trips. If she spent any more on him, it'd start coming out of the company's money, rather than just her profits.

_I've already had to pour my personal research funds into the droids, and now the pressure system too, _she thought with a roll of her eyes, glancing down toward the gravity capsule with distaste. _I might even have to start subsidising investor stock, just to keep him running…No, no I can't do that, there's no way I can guarantee any kind of returns… But maybe I can contract some of these designs out to the Royal Military? _She was hesitant to do it, given her father's rather strict stance against the manufacture and trade of arms and munitions, but she was running out of options. Then again, it wasn't really like she'd be selling them any weaponry; they already had the original prototype defence droids on loan for training drills, anyway. The cost of the pricey Prince's needs was only going to go up over the next few years as he got stronger, and though she could juggle some affairs enough to pay for it at present, there was a good chance she'd start having to spend money that wasn't hers very soon.

_Well, even if we take the newer droids Vegeta's using off the table, the outer plate design we got off of the Saiyan pods could pique their interest for tanks and that…_Leaning an elbow on the table, Bulma would squint thoughtfully at the capsule ship, tapping her cigarette once more with impatience. _The pressure system can __**definitely**__ be altered to outfit a submarine… I might have to reduce the valve size, but I could get away with only two on each vessel. After all, they'd only be withstanding oceanic stress, it's not like they'd need the extra endurance that three hundred G's takes. Plus, less power to run that way…_

A crafty smirk lined her lips then as she wrapped them around the butt, taking a long and self satisfied drag. "I'll have to squeeze for a while first, but if I can hold out until the summit next financial year, that should definitely be enough to cover us until the androids… it'll take some sweet talking, but if I can tease them with a demo, we should be alright. The navy will pay through the _nose_ for it if I'm offering an exclusive contract."

Leaning back into her chair and letting her gaze roam the sunny sky, the Heiress would nod to herself, a private and haughty giggle for her own cleverness. "Oh, Bulma… you really _are_ the whole package. Beauty, Brains, Brilliance and Bank Accounts…"

"Bullshit, too." came a familiar voice from behind her then, alongside the sure sound of feet setting down upon the balcony tile, soft in the descent from flight.

Bulma flinched at the sound of it, not expecting it at all, and very nearly flung herself backward to topple from her chair. Desperately clawing at the table to maintain her balance, a small sense of relief washing over her when the front legs hit the floor once again, the Heiress whipped her head back in absolute horror, suddenly feeling mortified for her appearance and simply not quite sure if she was ready to see _him_ just yet.

Standing firm in an orange gi with a disappointed—even defeated—frown marring his scarred features, Yamcha held his arms crossed over his chest, shaking his head with a sigh. "…You swore to me you'd quit smoking those filthy things, Bulma."

Framed by the wayward wisps of blue, her whole face blanched to palest white, eyes wide and body frozen at the very sight of him—for the life of her, and she damned herself for seeing such an illusion, but in that moment he set down the bandit had reminded her terribly of Vegeta. Blinking with some disbelief that it _wasn't _the Prince, it took her a few moments to shake the image from her mind, refocussed upon the tired sound of his voice instead. It was just a trick of the sun; it must've been in her eyes, that's all. She wasn't _expecting_ Vegeta, by any stretch… but then, she supposed, with the timing of it, she _had_ expected Vegeta more than Yamcha.

As a matter of fact, she hadn't seen Vegeta at all since their fight, not even after Goku had talked to him. She still had no idea what'd even become of that whole fiasco, and when she really pondered the curiosity, Bulma found it somewhat odd that the Prince hadn't appeared—mad as a hornet—to complain about 'dragging Kakarot into things' or some such. _Oh, he's probably gotten the shits up and blasted off somewhere to brood. Who cares? _Still, though it was brief, it unnerved her—Vegeta had somehow superseded Yamcha in her thoughts over the last few days, and still seemed to be doing it though her ex stood in front of her very face. Upon realising that, she was horrified by it, and with a small gasp remembered herself before him.

"I… I did, I just…!" already, she had turned to the glass ashtray, swinging around to harshly butt the cigarette out with no care for the fact it was only half finished, jabbing it into the ashes and twisting it out of shape to lie among its dead companions. "One and done! I just felt like… indulging my stress a little, that's all…" she lied. "It's not like I'm taking it back up, or anything."

As the bandit leaned to glance past her, he spied evidence to the contrary, taking note of the packet beside her and a brief count of how many she'd had recently. "Then why is there at least half a packet's worth in there?" he mused incredulously, unimpressed as he arched a brow and nodded toward the ashtray.

Caught by a strange old panic, Bulma instinctively grabbed the packet, waving it for him to see before hastily tossing them over the side of the balcony. "There, see? Don't need 'em. I can give it away any time I want to." She raised her shoulders in a nonchalant shrug, as if to prove the point and avoid a lecture if possible. Secretly though, she was glad for the distraction… the old peeve made seeing him all the easier, breaking the ice to avoid the pain of it.

But having tossed their distraction away now, the two were forced to really look at each other, and a strained silence of things lingering unspoken began to drift in the air between them. Despite the bright colour he wore, the heiress could see it in his eyes—he was no better off than she was, kept up at night and likely wondering where they had started to slip, thinking back on every little argument and girl and wishing he could go back and reverse it. Her heart nearly broke for him again, knowing that she'd been the one to bring it out into the open… he wasn't smiling, or forcing any façade. He just looked tired, the subtle ghost of sadness lining his visage as he was haunted by the memories and loss.

Self consciously, she tugged upon her sleeve, mutely thankful for the ugly pink nightgown she wore—the bruising was hidden completely under the soft material, and she knew if her ex had caught her in a tank top, nothing but more trouble would come of it. Troubles neither of them needed right now.

Hanging her head low as their reticence became too much, the Heiress focussed instead upon the chipped paint still clinging to her toenails from three weeks prior, suddenly realising how far she'd let herself go. A weary sigh escaped her, though she hid most of it from his ear. "…What are you doing here, Yamcha?"

Shifting cautiously to lean against the balustrade, the bandit settled both hands on it, his tension obvious though he tried to appear relaxed. His gaze avoided her as well, suddenly unsure of himself now that he had finally gotten the courage to come here. "I… was just wondering if you could lend me a few month's worth of ration caps." It was the truth, in a way, but he new she could tell there was more to it than that.

"I was thinking of going back out to the desert and roughing it for a while, Bulma. Puar is going to stay at Master Roshi's, and you know I can't cook, so I figured getting some rations first was a good start. I need to focus on my training for a while, alone… get my head clear and start taking things more seriously. Even Krillin's starting to pull ahead of me, and Tien's just about leaving the both of us in the dust, so…" a listless shrug came as he trailed off, chancing a brief glance up at her before his gaze fell away again, thick fingers drumming pensively upon the balustrade.

"So you're leaving." She finished for him, bringing her arms to hug herself weakly as an old pang tightened her chest. They both knew it; she absolutely hated it when he went away. She worried and pined, and couldn't stand the thought of not seeing him for so long… it didn't hurt so much when they were broken up or fighting, usually, because her anger allowed her to buffer those things and ignore them for a time… but on that note, too, those feelings were one of the driving factors that usually drew her back to him again, once he'd returned. This time, there was nothing to hold back that care or stifle the strain of such distance, though there was nothing she could do for it either.

They weren't together anymore, and they wouldn't be ever again. What he did was his business, and he was right, he did need to buckle down… even so, it was hard to swallow it, so fresh after ending things on _neutral_ terms. It'd obviously done a number on him, because Yamcha never went on long journeys without Puar beside him unless he was deeply affected by something, and unable to truly hide those pains.

As if to demonstrate that very point, his voice wavered very near to cracking when he spoke again, his dark eyes fixed to the tile beneath. "I'm not here to try and talk you into getting back together… and I'm not going to make promises I can't keep or leave flowers on your doorstep like I usually do…" he rubbed his nose then with a stoic sniff, as if it itched with the want of glossed eyes he couldn't bear to have. "But I couldn't leave with the last time I saw you being the day you broke up with me, either. There are a couple of things I just have to get out there before I go, Bulma."

She didn't want to hear them. Not now. Not from him—and wasn't it just like Yamcha, to lay them at her feet and leave, while she dealt with the shards of guilt and hurt as they pricked her delicate skin. Long lashes gave a slow blink as Bulma forced herself to look him over, her lips drawing thin as she shifted her chair around to face him, a stubborn and irritating screech given as the legs dragged across tile. Propping an elbow upon the back of it, the Heiress cocked her head bravely, wearing a distant look to imply that if he was lying, she would take her leave of him just as quickly.

It took almost all the energy she had just to pretend this was okay.

"Alright, Yamcha… Say your piece, and I'll get your caps, and that's the end of it." She uttered it cautiously, eyeing him sternly for it and holding back any sliver of worry that could've come through. Internally, she hated how cold it sounded, the distance between them suddenly seeming like a mile rather than a few feet, but perhaps that was for the best.

The bandit hesitated to her tone, a flash of hurt darting across his eyes and shoulders setting tense. She could see the subtle twitch of his brow, knowing it for the insecurity it betrayed, but finally his lips moved, outlining his first syllable as the words settled on his tongue; mentally rehearsed. "That big fight we had… the last time we'd broken up before the Saiyans came; you remember… you wouldn't talk to me for a week, at first. Hell, the only reason you forgave me at all was because the battle was coming up. But…" he seized up, as if he were about to sneeze, and closing his eyes he let go of an audibly shaken sigh. "…The blonde. You'd called it off because you thought I was sleeping with her… and I took her out to dinner to spite you, afterward, before we sorted things out."

Bulma's eyes widened upon him dangerously, bitten down fingernails clamping tight to dig into the white plastic of her chair, and the memory—as well as where this seemed to be headed—sent a shiver of fury down her spine. "Go on…" she ground out low, the words slithering through closed teeth.

Thick fingers wandered to his midsection, gripping the front of his gi idly and flapping it as if the warmth of the day had become too much for him. He stared at her for a good moment or so, second guessing his confession with a painful twist in his stomach, but he knew it had to be done. She had to know. He owed her that much… and he needed to know, too, exactly what her reaction would be.

"It's funny, I don't even remember her name, but you… were right. I _did_ sleep with her. Twice before we broke up and… once after, that night I took her out." His handsome features twisted with some obvious shame for it, and he rose some to regain a little of his height, interjecting upon his own admission. "I'm sorry to tell you that now, Bulma, but I didn't think it was right to let you just keep wondering… If this really is it for us, then I want you to know the truth, but I have to-"

He nearly bit his own tongue when Bulma suddenly stood, knocking her chair aside with such force it nearly toppled over, and flinching for it the bandit fully expected—and deserved, he supposed—to be slapped. When nothing more came of it though, Yamcha's head would rise out of the cringe carefully, unsure of it as one eye cracked open slowly. When again he saw her, she _was_ livid, but not in the way he'd expected of her… in fact, he had never seen her quite like this before. The air seemed to thicken under the weight of her glare, staring down her ex with all the silent anger and hurt that such a vindication brought with it. Her fists trembled lightly at her sides, held there with great restraint as a flush began to colour her cheeks. The thin line of her lips parted first into a subtle sneer, before the words came through; not a yell, not a scream, not even a hiss.

Bulma spoke instead with a composed voice that almost sounded expectant; a tired thing bereft of affection, hiding the old wound well but coming out slightly vindictive for it. "I knew it. I fucking _knew_ it." She breathed, her chest rising with a long and calming breath, taken through her nose as her eyes narrowed. "Is there anyone else I should know about, Yamcha, or is that _all_ you came here to tell me?"

Even in the face of her scorn for it, the bandit knew he'd have his answer very shortly. Something changed about him then, a strange and solemn curve lining his mouth as he shook his head weakly. His voice came steady now, resolute though beaten down.

"No… No, Bulma, she was the only one. The most I've done since you wished me back is flirted with a couple of fans, that's it…Hell, that's all it _ever_ was…" his head hung low and his whole body seemed to slump then, as if the words she'd just said had whipped at his flesh and made it difficult to stand, black bangs covering his brow from her sight. He held the balustrade as if his legs would crumble beneath him, were he to try and stand on his own. It was now or never.

He knew neither of them would really want to hear what the other said, and if he was right in his guess, the lesson learned would be bittersweet for both of them.

"I just can't keep it in, anymore. I mean… every time you used to accuse me of cheating, I couldn't stand it. You'd get mad at me for just _looking_, or even when it was other women looking at _me_…! I just got so fed up with it… There was no way I could win; if I didn't, you'd think I did anyway, and there was nothing I could do to change that. But I _never_ did, not once, Bulma, outside of that blonde I mentioned before. Sure, I got over the shyness, and I'll admit, it felt good to chat somebody up every once in a while just to know I could… No matter what I said, though, you didn't really believe me. You just locked it away in your head, assuming that I was a liar until I won you back somehow, and you 'forgave' me… So I just snapped one day and thought, screw it, I'm damned if I do and I'm damned if I don't, so why not?"

Spinning on her heel as he gave such awful confirmation of her fears, Bulma turned away from him, taking a helpless step to put some distance between them. She didn't want him to see the agony staining her face—it was the truth she'd wanted, but for all the times she'd begged for him to be honest with her, knocked back and placated until she simply gave up on ever hearing it, the tragedy of having it now was simply too much to bear.

Her hands came up quickly, shooting to block her ears on instinct, but forcing herself to listen they would sweep back into blue curls instead, twisting fingers in to tug at them. It took a good moment for her to process it all, not knowing how to feel about the revelation and suddenly finding it was better not knowing. Perhaps in time, she'd be grateful for the sliver of honesty, but at present, his timing was poor.

"Yamcha, you can be a real _bastard_ sometimes, you know that? You just thought 'why not'?! How about being _in a __**relationship**_, that's why not…!" Biting the inside of her cheek, Bulma let her hands fall, bitter as she wondered where the hell it had all started to go wrong for her. Everything was in tatters, falling to pieces and crashing all around her this past week, and the shock of it all had very nearly left her feeling numb and cold; detached from her reality as nothing more than a puppet on fate's string.

Her control over her life seemed little more than some distant illusion now, watching it all so easily undone.

Hesitant to continue, Yamcha's voice was soft and reproachful when again it lilted to her ear. "I'm sorry Bulma… Not a day goes by anymore that I don't think about it. Since I got wished back, the guilt's been killing me… I can't believe I let that happen at all now, let alone knowing I did it out of spite. Just seeing how you looked at me when I came back… the way you lit up… I knew I'd made the mistake that'd break us. Even seeing the articles and your interview in Sports weekly, lying through your teeth for my comeback… I can't tell you how many nightmares I've had, panicking about what would've happened if you found out and how crushed you'd be if you knew…"

A humourless hint of laughter caught in his throat as the corners of his lips rose for the irony. "I honestly thought I was just lucky; I was just about waiting for it to rear its head any old time now. You always had this habit of _searching_ for the things that aren't there, so when it finally did happen for real… it kinda shocked me when it went under the radar, but I guess the fact that I was dead let it be swept under the rug. Since coming back, I pretty much promised myself I'd make it up to you somehow, if I just kept it a secret. It didn't work out that way, obviously, and it's kinda selfish of me… but there's one thing I have to know for sure, and now that we're over, I can finally ask you honestly..."

His eyes were hollow as they drifted over the back of her, washed out and faded though the cynical smirk remained. "Even after telling you the truth, you _still_ don't believe me, do you? Not the fact that I slept with her, I mean, but that she was the _only_ one… you can't accept it, can you?"

Staring out at the city skyline as the question crashed upon her like a rogue wave, the heiress found herself unwilling to answer. It was a maddening paradox—for all the years of doubt and accusations, for all the girls and every time she was convinced she had him red-handed, Bulma never did catch Yamcha out in the act… now, it seemed nothing more than paranoia and envy gone awry. _Now,_ she was being told it was her constant lack of faith that finally _drove_ him to it, pushed over the edge by a vast rift of mistrust and frustration that'd festered into something ugly; a monster lurking beneath the sanguine comfort of always running back to each other in the end.

"Damn it, Yamcha…" she whispered weakly then, turning slowly back toward him with a fragile glance. "You couldn't have decided to do all this a week ago, could you?" with a broken sigh, she rubbed at tired eyes to give a light shake of her head, in sorrowful disbelief as she wondered how much worse things could get after this.

"…'Course not. That'd be too easy, wouldn't it?" A fleeting and self-depreciative smile hinted across his handsome features then, the ghost of a dimple tugging the side of his scar as he watched her, heavy hearted for it all.

Bulma held it in a moment longer, swirling it about her tongue with distaste—she hated the answer, but it was the only one she had to give. "…No. I don't believe you. I wish I could, Yamcha… but I can't help it." All the wind was gone from her sails, the little rest she'd acquired stripped of her in minutes, and dead feet dragged her toward her chair so that the heiress could collapse back into it. Overcome by life's little hurdles and pessimistic now, Bulma simply braced herself for more. "No matter what I do, the doubt will _always_ be there. Maybe it's my fault, building a habit out of assuming the lies… because I didn't want to deal with the jealousy; I don't know. Other women were _always_ interested in you, we both know that, but when you got over your nerves enough to flirt back… I just… didn't trust you anymore."

She rolled her shoulders helplessly, almost surprised at how easily it all left her lips. "Whether you cheated all those years or not, Yamcha… I know I can't live the rest of my life with that suspicion, worrying over something that might not even be there… and now that I know it _has _happened, at least once, I just don't know how I could ever ignore that paranoid streak again. _Especially_ if what you're saying _is_ true… So what if it _was_ a one time thing and never happens again? Would I just constantly think the worst of you and punish you for being innocent? I couldn't live with _myself,_ knowing what that'd do to _you_ inside… Me, not ever being able to let it go and having that constant cloud ruin anything good about our relationship… _nobody_ deserves that. Not when you're supposed to love them."

Handsome features were lined with regret as his voice wavered on the very edge of control—there was more depth in his gaze to match what he was saying now, and she swore he was the closest to crying she'd ever seen him. "I know this probably isn't a great way of showing it, but I do love you, Bulma… always have and probably always will. Right from the start, I used to dream about finding the right girl and getting married… but somewhere along the line, I guess I just forgot about it."

"We've been on the rocks for a while, and sure, I can't say I'm completely fine with it all yet… but you always were the one who put your foot down when enough was enough. Let's be honest here, we've _both_ been taking advantage of each other these past few years, in between emotional blackmail and being faithful and... It's not healthy, you know, and you're right, we're not _kids_ anymore. We _are_ past it now, and it's taken me a while to understand… I didn't _want_ to understand, but… you can't trust me and I can't take the fact I don't make you happy anymore."

Tucking herself up into a ball upon her chair, the heiress would hug her knees close to her chest, hiding her face from him as blue curls fell about to cover it. She wasn't sure if the tears _would_ come, but she didn't want to take that chance. It mattered not whether they were his or her own… once one of them started, there would be no stopping it. She was on the edge of a complete breakdown as it was, with everything that had happened.

"Please, Yamcha… can we just leave it at that? I appreciate your honesty and all, but I really, _really_ don't need this right now…" she murmured softly, voice muffled behind her knees and little more than a crushed groan. "You can have the capsules… I've got some right there in my desk draw, okay? Case closed. We're over, we're on good terms, you need to train, and I just physically _cannot_ handle this day anymore."

…_And to think it started off so well, all sunny and nice… Mom better have more strawberries in the fridge, after this._

"I'm sorry, Bulma, I just had to know for sure. You've had time to wrap your head around it all, I'm just trying to catch up, here… so there's nothing left unsaid between us. I have to get these things off my chest, so we can _both_ move on, you know?" The bandit was sorry for it, and that much was evident in his voice—he could see perfectly well how worn down she looked, and it shocked him to see his Bulma in such a state. He had known he was going to upset her, sure, but even before his confession of guilt, he had noticed how ragged the usually immaculate heiress was. When first laying eyes upon her, he'd honestly wondered if she was sick, but hearing her speak, he knew it was stress that had done this to her. He didn't want to add to it, but neither could he let her go without hearing him out, if this really was the end for them.

She didn't move at all, her gorgeous features buried defensively between her knees so that he could neither see nor gauge her reactions, and awaiting response with an anxious frown, the bandit's knuckles whitened upon the balustrade when he didn't receive one. Clearing his throat in the hopes of drawing her gaze, he pressed on bravely.

"I was also coming here to ask you… if you were okay with my leaving at all. I know it shouldn't really matter now that we're calling it quits, and maybe it's just habit, but I needed to know how you felt first. I'm gonna be gone a long time, and I'll be out of reach. I could be gone three months, or I could be gone a full year… I'm not sure, yet."

Taking a nervous hand to the back of his neck, Yamcha would grit his teeth, finding the words as his fingers twisted into the mane of black locks there to tug. He wasn't sure how to say it, given how offended she could be if it came out wrong, _especially_ given they'd just come off the subject of cheating and the like… but as his gaze caught sight of that eyesore ship the Saiyan trained in, he found all conviction he needed, some bitterness coming through for it.

"I know I need this trip if I've got any hope of really getting stronger… and the time apart will probably do us both a world of good to make sure we don't fall back into old habits. I mean, if we can't see or talk to each other, we won't be getting back together again, or anything… You know, cold turkey, and that's probably best. But, I don't want to leave you here alone with _him_ either, knowing there's no way for you to get a hold of me once I leave. I know there's not really anything I could do to stop him, I guess, if he really set his mind to something… but I don't care. I don't trust him, Bulma, and I need to know you're safe. I mean, ever since you told me you had that _dream_ about him, I just…"

His scarred jaw tensed to cut himself off as the words left him, seeing her head snap up to stare coldly with wide blue eyes—he could see anger and pain in them, and he knew somehow he'd failed in his attempt not to offend her already, wincing internally for it. He drew a stilted breath as shaky hands gripped the barrier tightly, thinking quickly as the Heiress snapped in defence, wearing panic on her sleeve to be thinly veiled by her affronted expression.

"It was _just_ a _**dream**_! Why the hell does everybody have to keep bringing that up!? I never _meant_ to have it, I _didn't_ enjoy it, I _didn't_ break up with you to be with him, and I will _never _kiss him!" languid curls whipped back and forth as Bulma shook her head quickly, swallowing down the sting in her throat and pressing a hand to her feverish brow. Blue eyes squeezed shut tightly, wishing this could just stop here, but cutting him off, she found _herself_ needing to be heard instead as she stifled the ghosts of last night's tears. "I know you got jealous and all, but I never meant to make it seem like I had any feelings for him, okay? You _have_ to know that Yamcha, he has absolutely _nothing_ to do with this, I swear to you, so please don't think Vegeta influenced my decision to end things… I didn't break up with you just to concentrate on helping him, either! _Yes_, I can understand how it _looks_, but it is _**not**_like that!"

Black hair swayed behind as he shook his head, empathetic for it as he scanned her tired form, and by the saddened grimace he gave she knew already that he had never doubted it. "I know, Bulma… I know you didn't _really_ think about anybody else whenever we were together. Even when we weren't, you never went with anyone, though you had plenty of chances to…" slowly he shifted, uncomfortable now that her eyes were upon him, and the bandit took to gazing out toward the city skyline as he leaned against the balustrade.

His answer surprised her some, though she couldn't place quite why at first, blue eyes wavering over the back of him as her magazine flipped a few pages for the breeze beside her. The noise caught her attention, drawing a glance to it, and in the flickering images in the glossed pages as they turned, Bulma caught the familiar glimpse of the bimbo host she disliked—_what was the name of her show again? Tingle…? No, Chime… with Belle, that was it. _Suddenly, the pieces fell into place, and in the strange serendipity, she recalled that ridiculous book and the 'advice' offered by its author not days before.

_As soon as something else catches your eye, expect a ring, because that's his way of bumping up the stakes._

Frowning lightly for it as the phrase blew through her mind, the heiress found her gaze return to her orange clad ex-boyfriend, and before she could find a reason enough to squash such curiosity, the question left her. "Yamcha… why did you offer me a ring that day at Kame House, when I'd already told you my mind was made up?"

She saw his eyes widen a fraction, taken aback by it as biceps visibly twitched to tense, and glancing from the corner of his eye first, the bandit would slowly tilt his head to look back at her earnestly. A light, almost helpless, grimace twisted his mouth. "This is probably gonna sound stupid, but… really, I guess I just thought that was what you wanted from me. When we were younger, and we both wanted to be married, we had some of our best years… I just wanted us to go back to that. I thought, I don't know, maybe a wedding would take us to that place again when we really _did_ just love each other, instead of just suffering each other just because nobody would…"

Turning his attention back outward to scan the grounds, his thick mane of hair swayed softly in the breeze, a bashful rub of his nose somewhat hiding a half-smile. "That, and maybe it'd make up for all our shortcomings, you know, like we'd have made it anyway so all the bullshit in between wouldn't mean anything anymore." As if it truly was behind them now, he gave a careless roll of his shoulders to dismiss it.

Though the heiress took it in, tilting her head pensively as her toes flexed in consideration, she found herself relieved rather than disappointed. Idle fingers took to a wisp of blue, grooming it self-consciously as she eased into another query, blinking innocently. "…So… when I told you about the dream ages back… you weren't getting _jealous_ of Vegeta, or anything stupid like that…?"

With a subdued and gloomy chuckle rumbling in his chest, the bandit shook his head ruefully, already sensing his reservations seeping up through the cracks unabated as the subject turned swiftly to the Saiyan.

"Truth is… it was never simple enough to _just_ be jealousy. I didn't like you spending so much time around him, sure, but that's because I was _worried_. You haven't seen the side of Vegeta that I have, Bulma. You haven't _seen_ him smiling with the _genuine_ _intent_ to see you die, or that sadistic glint in his eyes as he watches you being beaten black and blue. I watched the whole battle in other world, not to mention what he did on Namek… He's an _evil_ son of a bitch when he wants to be, and no matter how well he behaves lately, _nobody_ should forget what he's capable of. When you told me about that dream, how he was nicer to you and how you'd even gone so far as to _kiss_ him… how you were worried about his fuel running low out there in space… it _scared_ me to think how comfortable you were becoming around him… around a man who'd murdered more people than even _you_ can count, Bulma."

As the nightmares he'd had for weeks flew about his head like an angry swarm of hornets, stinging his heart and making his gut churn, Yamcha clasped his hands in front of his face, grazing teeth against his knuckle in comfort as he glared down at the ship with a hateful scowl. To him, it symbolised the Prince perfectly, recalling how he could do nothing to endure the intense gravity inside; muscles aching and bones threatening to crack under the merciless pressure.

"I just kept thinking… what if you forgot…? What if there came a day when suddenly, he wasn't the ruthless killer anymore and we _all_ just forgot he'd ever been that way, lowering our guard and paying for it with our lives? What if you got too brave with him one day and he decided he'd had enough of you? What if the bastard lulled you into a false sense of security, only to rape you one day when you're alone? What if he kills you or your father because the work isn't being done fast enough? What if you become a hostage when he decides to turn?! What if the thing he uses to force a fight with Goku is _your_ death?! I-I just… I…"

Overwhelmed by the thought, the bandit winced visibly, clenching his teeth and trying to bite back on some of his animosity. He didn't _want_ to hold anything against the Prince unfairly, and much like Goku, a part of him hoped for the best—a powerful new ally that would turn over a new leaf, with a little push, just as Piccolo had. But, where Bulma was concerned, the darkest corner of his mind went to work, churning out the worst case scenarios and plucking discordant notes from his heartstrings. There were so many horrors that still swirled in the smoky darkness of Vegeta's gaze, as much as there was still poison hidden neatly behind the cruel smirk, and Yamcha could not help the dread spawned of it. The Saiyan's crimes were still too fresh in his mind, and far outweighing any small good that had been seen of him as yet.

A pained look took him over, toned muscles twitching for it all over him, and with a sharp and serious look thrown back at her over his shoulder, the bandit hissed. "No matter what happens, Bulma, you _promise_ me you'll never forget the things that bastard can do with a smile on his face. Please… just look after yourself, and be _careful_."

The words seemed to hit her straight in the chest, and unconsciously, the Heiress found her hand lingering softly about her upper arm, tracing the hidden bruising beneath. She couldn't help but soften to his concern, and though part of her knew he was right to be cautious still, other parts were warring over it. The Prince was such a mystery to them all, and the unknown was perhaps the scariest facet of him—sure, they all knew what he had been before he came here… but with not a single man down by Vegeta's hand since Namek, Bulma held out a small flame of hope for the misplaced Saiyan.

It was all she could do to keep her sanity, some days. Vegeta drove her completely up the wall, but somehow, she couldn't quite bring herself to dismiss the vague optimism she had about him. She could only wish for the moment that the 'talk' between the two Saiyans last night—whatever it had turned out to be—would set things back on a more tolerable course. The Heiress was still a little uneasy about it all, but at least a few rules would be set in stone for it, and so long as Vegeta held to them, then things could only get better.

_I guess it's just like Goku says, _she sighed internally, a tiny smile coming of it and offered to her ex softly, _we'll just have to cross the bridges as we come to them, whatever they might be. The future is going to be different and anything could happen between now and then… even Vegeta having a change of heart, maybe only a small one, but enough to know he's on our side for good. And hey, even if he doesn't, that cute kid from the future is a Super Saiyan too, right? Between him and Goku, Vegeta's not going to get very far if he does try anything… No way. That'd just… be crazy…_

Letting go of her legs, she would rise slowly to her feet, padding quietly over to place a reassuring hand to his back and enjoying the familiar feel of the orange material he wore. "Yeah, Yamcha, I know. But you know me; I'm tougher than I look, and if anyone can handle him… it's _me_." her smile broadened some as she echoed Goku's words to her from last night, hoping they'd have the same affect on him as well—he couldn't waste time worrying for her, if it distracted him from his training. The last thing she wanted was for him to die because of her, even in part. So she simply hid her troubles as best she could from him behind that misleadingly confident smile. "Everything's going to turn out in the end. There's a long way to go yet, but I really do believe we'll get there, and you should too, okay?"

For the first time in what seemed like forever and a day inside of her head, Bulma watched those handsome and scarred features shed some of their weariness and soften to match the warmth of the sun above, a small and humble sort of smile gently resting there. With a nod he would shift slowly to straighten up to full height again, turning away from the balcony's edge to face his old flame, comfortable again as he studied her gorgeous visage.

And indeed, to Yamcha, she was always beautiful, no matter how little sleep she'd gotten, or how little make up she wore, or even when her blue locks fell languishing in neglect.

"That's a great attitude to have, Bulma… Yeah, I'll try my hardest out there, just to make that true."

"Good!" she brightened, giving him a light and playfully encouraging bat on the arm, and with a wink she'd turn quickly to surprise him, retreating back through the open glass door of her bedroom.

Left to blink after her, a brow quirked as he heard the shunt of draws opened and closed among paper and other junk jostled about as she rummaged, Bulma was quick to reappear. With on hand gripping the metal frame, she leaned to poke her head out victoriously, and waving a small rectangular tin that rattled some with loose contents. "Alrighty, this is a travel pack I opened not long ago, so it'll mostly be ration caps… but there should also be a capsule house in there—just in case—and I think there's an airbike in there too." Furrowing her brows a little, she'd lower it for her inspection, incredulous. "There's two or three missing, but you're supposed to be roughing it out there, so whatever. I guess it's just lucky dip as to whether you get the house or not." She knew the house was in there, but it was more fun to keep him guessing, poking her tongue out at him briefly.

Slumping a little and sending her a slightly exasperated look, the bandit would ruffle the short spikes of his hair apprehensively and step forward to claim them—he didn't really trust Bulma when it came to keeping track of which capsules were in which cases, but it'd just have to do for now. "Gee, thanks, Bulma." He mused sarcastically, holding back a light chuckle, but as thick fingers took to the small case, they brushed against her skin and gave them both tender pause as the pair stared at the contact between them.

After a moment of silence, the heiress spoke first, a quiet and genuine concern in her voice. "…Don't be a hero out there, Yamcha. Use as many as you need to… I don't expect to get any of these back, okay?" slowly, blue eyes rose to meet his with an unsure twitch of her brow—it took all the willpower she had to fight the habit of kissing him goodbye, the slightest waver to lean forward quickly stifled for the best.

Yamcha watched the movement stoically, biting back on his own instinct to act on old affection, almost pained by the effort as her hand slipped away to leave the case in his alone. A curt nod came for it instead, his gaze flitting down briefly and a more serious expression gained. "Likewise, Bulma… don't take on more than you can manage, here. Whenever Vegeta gets back, just tread carefully and don't do anything that makes you feel unsafe, alright?" his eyes returned to hers with some shimmer regained there, another fleeting though genuine smile flashed with it as he took a step back to turn away. "I guess I'll see you when I see you."

She forced a smile after him, willing herself not to dredge up those old feelings that always came whenever he set out anywhere for long, but watching the bandit lift upwards into the air, the Heiress would blink as what he said caught her. "…Hey, wait! Yamcha! What… do you mean, 'when Vegeta gets back'…?" she called up suddenly, thrusting out a hand as if it would halt him by her thoughts alone. "I… I thought he was in the ship, down there…?" it was an awkward stammer, surprised and bemused as she stared at her ex above.

He didn't stop for her though, simply slowing his ascent to call back to her, glancing down with a rise of his brows. "Huh…? No, I came this morning because I figured it was good timing, given you probably wouldn't be doing anything. I didn't sense him around the grounds at all, so I figured we could talk without _him_ interrupting… If you really wanna know, Bulma, I think I can feel his ki up north near the mountains. Anyway, take care and I'll see you later!"

With little more than a wave and a pale flare of his aura, the bandit took his leave of both the heiress and the Corporation, speeding off into the flawless sky until Bulma could see no more of him. But as she stood there trying to make sense of this new information, her grip tightening anxiously upon the frame of her sliding door, she wondered of what the Prince's absence may mean and felt a tiny flutter of concern sweep her spine.

_Oh come on, it's Vegeta. He's taken off plenty of times without telling anyone where he's going. I bet he'll be back by dinner time._

And with a sigh and a shake of her head, Bulma dismissed the odd feeling in her belly, retreating back into her room. Having every intent to go downstairs and out onto the lawn, keen on retrieving her precious cigarettes now that the bandit had gone, she made a mental note to herself not to entertain anymore thoughts about the prince for today. The sun was still shining, all was well, and she was going to kick back and relax while the opportunity remained.

Such a shame, then, that when finally dinner time did come around, the Prince was nowhere to be seen.

**A/N:**

**Ahhhh, closure. I really am itching to get to the next chapter now, because now we're set up so nicely with that theme of trust/mistrust, and Yamcha's been tied off nicely. Let's face it; you do not come out of a long term relationship like that, still remaining friends, unless a deep and meaningful takes place and you reconcile why this is what's best.**

**Regardless of how a couple can bang on and yell and bicker, when you split and stay friends, there are no voices raised or doors slammed. It's a very bittersweet end, and you walk away having learned something not only about the other person, but yourself, and I can speak from experience there. Fifteen years off and on, even with suspected infidelity, is not simply pushed aside without a long conversation and some serious self reflection.**

**It'd be a hard pill to swallow, and respect to any of you who've been down that rabbit hole and kept a level head.**

**On the plus side, Bulma went through a pretty big upheaval in the maturity factor around this time, and motherhood cements it all in place later. I think this is a pretty good start to showing her first big steps there.**

**Anyhoo, tired now, and Onward to Glory!**


	9. Eureka

Chapter 9: **Eureka**

Eight days.

Eight days without argument or incident—nobody invading her space, or berating her for trivial things. No gruff voice to shake her from her reveries or insults to cause her offence. Bulma's daily world was once again one of pleasant smiles from employees within the corporation, the idle hum of her mother cheerily going about watering the gardens or satisfaction her father took in a day's work well done.

She received a fatherly pat on the shoulder and proud confidence when she presented her refined designs for the engines to go in this year's line of airbikes, as was to be expected. Pansy provided her as always with maternal cooing, constantly reaffirming how pretty her baby girl was even without makeup and happily sharing baked goods from 'that lovely new bakery that just opened up near that nice restaurant—you know, the one with the giant koi pond we went to for my birthday last year'.

The Heiress' wish for normality had been granted it seemed, and her life was back to what it had been before Namek; before the Saiyans, before that fateful day Goku learned what his tail had meant… before she had ever known of the surly Saiyan Prince.

At first it seemed a blessing, free to do as she pleased without the constant stress of him being there. Afforded time and rest, Bulma was able to get a handle on everything she'd fallen behind in, and she found it much easier to reconcile her lingering feelings about the break up now that she and Yamcha had gotten some closure. Sleep came easily for the first time in quite a while, with no worry for an intruder in the night or an alarm that she didn't set going off to wake her.

Unburdened by Vegeta's demands, the work was done at her own pace, enjoyable without the rush. Employing her father's help alongside some workers from engineering, the hole blasted in the ship was swiftly fixed, a replacement door manufactured and mounted in place, allowing the use of gravity once more. The new pressure system had also been installed in full to replace the older model, the first set of prototypes proving successful—having been able test them properly under the gravity, without the Prince contesting to it or refusing to stop training long enough for her to do so, the first line of her finished product was put in place immediately.

Perking up some, she had even taken to the upkeep of her hairstyle again to reflect her better moods—she wasn't quite to the point of wearing makeup again, but she had shifted from track pants to a jumpsuit made for working with mechanics, tying the arms of it about her hips during her breaks to reveal the tank top still lingered underneath. Small progress perhaps, but sure signs that she was slowly regaining some inner peace, content to work and prepare for the bleak future and once again holding some faith in overcoming it.

That was, however, only the first few days. As the week wore on with no sign of the Prince's return, Bulma's contentment began to wane, and gradually her 'refreshing break' started to become rather more like a disquieting loss.

Gaps were beginning to appear in the comforts of her usual routines with startling frequency, leaving sad and unsure patches of time in the Heiress' days. She noticed them slowly at first; accidental or habitual things that she expected though didn't often seem to be present outside of her mind. She had a tendency to get defensive if anybody seemed to smirk at her, was much more sensitive of work completed on schedule and found herself giving a slight blink of surprise whenever somebody referred to her by name. One of the employees in her father's lab had noted an error in a report, and Bulma set about them with an aggressive snap to correct and prove them wrong, as if expecting an argument. When it was simply accepted, an apology offered as the employee conceded and nothing more was said about it, she was left feeling rather odd; as if something were amiss. Taken aback by her own hostility, the Heiress could only give a self conscious shake of her head, making a mental note to chill out a little and wondering why she had reacted that way.

As more time passed, those tiny anomalies became increasingly obvious, and larger ones began to creep in as well, leaving lonely spaces with nobody to fill them. Though Bulma tried her best to ignore them, her world seemed to shrink a little more each day, focusing upon the glaring absence Vegeta had left in it. Thoughts of the Prince invaded her mind often, bringing with them a strange feeling of unrest and throwing into sharp relief the Heiress' own sense of isolation, the days dragging out agonisingly slow as she found herself waiting for his return.

Passing glances of the gravity capsule became lingering stares, expectant eyes frantic when they thought they saw movement inside and disappointed sighs given when it was no more than a reflection upon the port windows. The air seemed dead and lifeless without the hum of its use or the pressurised burst of air to signal the door opening from afar, even the light vibration one could feel as they stood upon the lawns seemed noticeable now that it was gone.

By the sixth day, the Heiress realised—painfully inescapable as it seemed to have become—that she missed him, and more than that, she wasn't the only one for whom Vegeta had become a part of daily life.

Ever faithful, Pansy slaved away to create a banquet fit for her favourite Prince without fail each night, cheerfully insisting that he would be hungry when he got home. No matter what Bulma said, the blonde could not bring herself to listen, preparing the food with optimism just in case he finally did arrive. With each meal that passed by, small feasts left to go cold beside an empty chair, the usually spirited chatter of the Briefs' over dinner became instead a sombre hush, each of them careful not to draw attention to their missing guest as they ate in mournful silence. Each day Pansy doubled her efforts, going to incredible lengths of cookery as if the Saiyan would smell it in the air and follow it home, and each day Bulma watched her mother wrap up the uneaten feast with morose to tuck it away in the fridge; her cheery smile replaced by anxious sorrow.

So much left over food meant that the Briefs themselves now only ate what Vegeta had not, yet every night Pansy held to her hopeful ritual, cooking only for the Prince as she willed him to return.

By the dinner of the seventh day, Bulma could stand it no more; a strange desperation taking hold of her to find the Prince and—at the very least—put some of her concerns to rest, if not find out why, despite Goku having convinced her _not_ to kick him out, he was suddenly gone.

She had spent hours tearing apart her entire room looking for the parts she needed, ripping draws open and searching under her bed, moving piles of clothes and books and scouring the mess for any sign of it. Finally finding the remnants tucked away among the knick-knacks of her bookshelf, she had raced down to her lab, grateful she hadn't thrown them away. Over the course of the night she had set to work, rediscovering old notes and thoroughly scanning what was left of it, trying desperately to remember her work from last time. Reverse engineering what she could from the charred circuitry, she was diligent, leaving no detail unchecked—every button, every wire, even the colouring of the glass was reworked and replicated, put to use in a new model as she built it up by scratch.

The break of dawn went unnoticed as Bulma worked straight through it, programming and finetuning the device until she was absolutely sure it was in accurate working order. It was nearing noon by the time she was done, and with a short test upon the employees and herself, clear readings given without fluctuation or error, the Heiress was confident that her search for the Prince could begin. Loosing a capsule upon the lawn outside her home, a puff of smoke revealed a small hover plane. Wasting no time, Bulma climbed into the cockpit and buckled herself in, taking off with a roar of the engines as she sped away to the North, cleaving clouds in her wake.

With blue eyes trained upon the mountains that covered her horizon, the Heiress would affix the device to her ear, taking a finger to press the larger button on the side and initiate the scanning process. With a loud beep and the audible click and whir of the device as it went to work, numbers and coordinates would flash across the green glass that sat to cover her right eye, narrowing in on the Prince's location quickly. Within seconds she had a lock on him, made easier for the substantially higher power level he had over humans, and with a victorious and sneaky grin, Bulma gave an affectionate pat to her new scouter.

"Thank you, Raditz." she purred, hands tightening around the joystick, and with a confident burst of speed she adjusted course for the wayward Saiyan.

Far ahead of her, hidden within the thickly forested mountain terrain, Vegeta had perched himself neatly upon the highest branch of a frost covered tree, unaffected by crisp morning air as it prickled his thickened skin.

He knew this area well now, intimately familiar with the pristine solitude nature offered—he had mapped out around five miles worth of woodland, memorising every plant and boulder and staying close to a small, half frozen river he had found there. The air was fresh and unsullied by pollutions, every morning heralding the purest dew to form and freeze upon the leaves as the sunrise came vibrantly, unimpeded by the rise of sky scrapers. The only noises were of the wildlife and the rustle of trees as the wind blew through them. The stars shone clearly, the milky streak of the galaxy splayed across the night sky in dazzling detail to lend him comfort and a sense of place. He knew the movements of the animals and had tasted the beasts and game lurking here to be hunted—though they had tempted him, he had refrained from trying the scores of snowy berries to be found here, unfamiliar as he was with Earthly flora.

Since secluding himself within the serene forest as it sprawled lush over the base of a hardy mountain, the Prince had busied himself by taking Kakarot's 'suggestion' to task, putting a great deal of effort into convincing himself that it was his own decision, simply made in response to the news his expatriate had shared about Bulma's supposed injuries. Rationalising the accidental break in his accord with the Woman, Vegeta had resolved to privately rectify the cause rather than address the symptom. Loathe as he was to admit to it, Kakarot had caught him out—indeed, his mental acuity _had_ slipped some over the past few months, and for it the Woman had seen more force than he had intended when cast aside that day.

He told himself repeatedly that he couldn't care less for the fact that Bulma had been injured, and though somewhere deep within him a sliver of guilt lingered for his broken promise to her, the Saiyan squashed such sentiment quickly whenever it arose. No, the important thing to arise out of this was the realisation that he had grown negligent in a facet of his training, thus hindering his own progression. He was simply ashamed for it to have gotten far enough out of hand that his honour would be called into question _as well_ as his self control, and so he had removed himself to alleviate this problem, realigning mind and body to function in perfect unison once again.

Yes, this had very little to do with the Woman at all… she just so happened to be _there_, caught in his affairs for the fact she couldn't keep her nose out of them.

That was what he told himself.

Despite his best efforts however, quite a few times over the course of his absconding, Vegeta had found his thoughts drifting dangerously toward the heiress, anyway. Having not actually seen her to gauge how much damage was done, the question burned in him for how badly he had actually hurt her. How angry might she be with him, or bitter, even scornful? How fearful was she now that the wafer thin semblance of trust had clearly been torn asunder, and was it true that she had so desperately wanted to be rid of him? Why would she, of all people, hide behind Kakarot if she held issue with him? Was it because he had apparently broken his word, or was it something she'd simply hidden all along, masking her insecurities about his presence and putting on a façade of confidence and courage? If she did _not_ wish to control his affairs, as Kakarot said, then why remain so present and intrusive in the business of somebody you fear, given the choice?

And more than anything… did she _hate_ him?

At one point or another, all of these things had breezed the Saiyan's mind, some pondered more than others. He ignored most of them, refusing to respond to himself, paranoid of the answers and locking them away. Vegeta had no need to entertain the attachments these Earthlings were forcing upon him, and simply didn't want to besides that.

It unnerved him that such things, apparently of their own will, would spring to life in his head and spawn pockets of chaos within the strict and well-ordered system of thought he had built there. He had not anticipated that the Woman's odd behaviours with him might've actually been some sort of subliminal conditioning, and the notion that he had underestimated her proclivity for psychological warfare seemed very plausible now that he was apart from her. As a matter of fact, the Prince had noted that he seemed to suffer the effects more strongly the longer he spent away from her. Even his most idle of thoughts could swiftly take leave of his direction and threaten foreign sensations within his analytical brain, leaving him anxious and unsure of his proximities to the blue-haired Earthling.

As numerous conspiracies popped in and out of Vegeta's mind during his meditations—perhaps a chip implanted when he was in the injury ward after the explosion; her lingering presence _did_ make that very suspicious—the wayward thoughts made it difficult for him to concentrate at first. Frustrated and finding them hard to dismiss, instead he sought a way of making use of the mental impression the Woman had obviously administered while he was unawares, turning it against her in the regaining of his self-control. Aside from the irony of it, the Prince quickly deduced a way to train his ki management based on memories of Bulma—more specifically, things about her that annoyed him.

For every thought that turned to her, he would delve into it, focussing upon her faults—like that disgusting room of hers, for a start—and letting his rages soar before taking hold of his energy in those moments and reining it in sharply, calming himself. Occasionally it backfired, leaving the Saiyan a damning glimpse of her as she slept by his bedside, the helpless tears in her eyes as she threw the key at him, even the echo of her worried voice searching for him in the rubble or the chime of her laughter as it slipped past a gorgeous smile. But with bitter tenacity, convinced that there were more flaws to find in her than not, Vegeta managed to overcome that small setback and find plenty of imperfections to answer those scant few niceties. The sound of her voice as it pitched into a shriek, the vulgar and tasteless statements she made, the ridiculous colour of her hair, the nasal sound of her snoring, that _hideous_ pink shirt she made him wear; all of it became fuel for his fires, letting them flare violently before he doused them…

And slowly but surely, it seemed to have worked.

Now resting as he leaned bare shoulders against the glossy bark of his tree, he let his elbow rest upon a raised knee, enjoying the crisp scent of the air and gazing out over the picturesque canopy. As dark eyes traced the forest, the landscape glassy with frost and tender patches of white and green, Vegeta felt at ease. He had enjoyed the quiet and made good progress, content with the effort thus far. Though he only wore black drawstring pants and a pair of gloves, the cold didn't bother him at all, kept warm as he was by a light surge of ki at all times—having lost his tail, his balance had been affected ever since, and though he was mostly accustomed to its absence now, he maintained a pocket of energy to act as a stand in for the missing appendage. Sitting at such a height, balance was imperative.

An emptiness clawed at his stomach with a light growl, and though he'd been ignoring it for a while, Vegeta would glance downward at his torso now to acknowledge his hunger with a frown. Taking hold of a thinner branch above him he would lean out some, and scanning the ground below, the Prince's mouth would tick. He couldn't sense any animals in either of the traps he'd laid as yet; disappointed for it—he'd already stripped his last kill to the bone. Tilting his head up slowly, a twitch of his nose would let him scent the crisp air, taking in his surrounds even further for anything he'd missed as his senses fanned out through the trees. A brow twitched as he tossed up whether to simply go on the hunt instead of waiting for a trap to be sprung, but as the Saiyan picked up on an odd signal as it approached, his gaze took to the skies to find it.

_It's too weak to be one of those giant flying reptiles, but too fast to be a bird of any kind, _he puzzled to himself, squinting at the horizon with intrigue as he caught sight of something. _Must be something I haven't seen before. Whatever it is, it's heading my way, so it must be fairly keen on being eaten. _With a greedy smirk he shifted, pulling himself up on the thinner branch above and coming to stand with a lazy stretch. But as Vegeta rolled his shoulders, taking a moment as he considered how best to kill this airborne target without blasting the precious meat to bits, his ears perked to the distant sound of engines as they roared across the forest.

Confusion swept his features for a second, not having heard such a sound out here at all during his stay, and when he realised the strange flying creature was no more than a small hover plane, a dark scowl took him over. People did not venture out here. Narrowing his eyes with a slight snarl, he stared at the intrusive craft, refocussing his senses to define the ki more clearly. As it drew closer, Vegeta found he recognised the signature—that pathetically weak whine of life, high pitched like a ringing in one's ear…

The Woman had found him.

He turned swiftly, giving the trunk a frustrated slap that shook the whole tree, causing birds to take flight around him as the prince sneeringly cursed in his native tongue. How the hell did she even know where to find him? He was under the impression that the idiot had no sense of ki—that was very nearly impossible, to think one so unschooled could master such a thing… if she had, why then would she still be clueless as to the mechanics of combat and flight? Growling under his breath, the Saiyan continued his string of native swearing, gritting his teeth and whipping his head back to glare at the approaching vehicle as its shape became more visible. With an agitated grimace, Vegeta watched the craft slow down, finally coming to hover no more than twenty meters away before descending carefully down between the trees, aimed for the clearing beside his river.

He was immediately aware of movement within the forest around him, her landing having disturbed animals of all shapes and sizes as they were sent scattering away from the strange sound she brought with her—cleaving his chances of trapping food significantly, and resigning him to manually tracking it down himself.

"…Fantastic." Leaning a gloved hand against the bark, the prince would heave an irritated sigh, hanging his head in a harassed manner and finding himself reluctant to engage her—he could outpace her little toy easily, should he choose to fly off now… but then, it was likely she would only find him again later. Chewing the inside of his cheek, he resolved to stay, but decided quickly that he wasn't going to be getting down from his tree. Either she could climb up, or—as was likely the reason she came to find him—she could yell. Shifting again as his hand fell away from the tree, muscular arms would cross over his chest and the Saiyan would lean his shoulder against the trunk instead, dark eyes scanning the foliage below and waiting for the Woman to appear.

"Vegeta? Hey, come out; come out, wherever you are!" Calling out to him from beyond the trees, he held his silence and gave no hint to where he was. "Come on, it's cold out here! Where are you? Vegeta…!"

Within the minute she came stumbling through the bushes carelessly, brushing them awkwardly aside with some difficulty and swatting at the distastefully when the leaves caught her hair. Blinking a little as she freed herself of them to stand at the base of his tree, the Heiress' brows furrowed in search of him, she would give one last click of the scouter to give hint to the Prince's hiding place. A shrill beep sounded in the air, drawing his attention from on high as the sound—that sickeningly familiar sound—brought back memories he didn't care for, a wide eyed stare fixated upon the unmistakable green glass that gave the device away.

_She's resourceful, when she wants to be… _That certainly explained how she was able to find him, though the suspicion it raised didn't favour comfort or leave him impressed. He knew by the scouter's ranging that this was the closest she would come to spotting him, confirmed when Bulma's confused gaze did not wander upward; despite his resolve to stay hidden, his curiosity got the better of him with an impatient and paranoid rap of fingers upon his bicep.

"Where did you get that?" he spat incredulously, eyeing the device warily.

Startled, the woman would give a frantic glance around, unsure of which direction his voice had come from initially, but by way of elimination, the Heiress would finally look up to see the surly Saiyan glaring down at her with narrowed eyes. Squinting up at him, Bulma placed a hand to her brow, blocking the high sun of noon as a wry smile snuck across her features.

"Oh, there you are." She mused nonchalantly, as if she was perfectly used to finding him perched in odd spots. "Come down here, Vegeta. I wanna talk to you."

A dismissive grunt saw his head cocked belligerently. "Answer the damned question, Woman. _Then, _if I'm satisfied, I_ may_ join you." He growled it out low, warningly. He was no longer in her home, at present, and as far as Vegeta was concerned, the Woman now stood upon his territory. She would play by his rules, now. "How did you acquire that scouter?"

With a roll of her eyes as they fell, the Heiress would sigh, shaking her head as she settled hands lightly on her hips. She muttered something, and though the Prince's ears perked to hear it, he couldn't quite make it out. "I built it this morning to find you. You just took off and we haven't seen you in over a week, Vegeta, I was wondering where you've been-"

"You pilfered _Cold Empire_ technology so you could have a tracking device to keep tabs on my whereabouts? Have you no sense at all?" The disapproving scowl darkened as the Saiyan bristled, bearing his teeth—had he a tail, it would've fuzzed to thrash about behind him, distrustful of the presence of that particular equipment. "If the remnant network were to pick up on your frequencies, they could listen in on every word you say! Shut it off!"

Frowning at the negative response, Bulma would huff a little, plucking the device from her ear and waving it up at him as if to emphasise what she was saying. "Would you calm down? I built this thing _myself_, I know what it can and can't do, and how it works! For your information, _Vegeta_, I removed the transmitters from this design because, shocking as it might sound to you, I _was aware of that_!"

Pointing an accusatory finger down towards her, the Saiyan hissed. "Don't you lie to me, Woman! I know damn well you Earthlings don't have any such technology on this rock; the circuitry present in that device is _far_ more sophisticated than the paperclips and rubber bands you're accustomed to!" he scoffed cynically then, tucking the gloved hand into the barrier of his crossed arms once again. Sneeringly now, his tone bordered on the condescending, his chin raised high as if to snub her. "Now tell me where you _really_ got it, and this time, don't try to impress me with your false claims of being a 'genius'."

Visibly rising to fluster at his comments, the Heiress stifled an irritated groan as her hands balled into fists at her sides, hackles raised like a cat in water as she bit her tongue to keep from screaming at him. No, she wasn't going to give in to it again. She'd promised Yamcha she'd be more careful about it, and she herself knew well enough that if every interaction between her and the Prince became and argument, thing were never going to improve. There had to be common ground and a little bit of restraint if they were to continue being housemates, and if he was too immature to make the first strides in that, then she would just have to guide the way.

Drawing a patient breath and gritting her teeth to rid herself of her urge to snap at him, Bulma conceded slowly to tilt her head back up at him, her breath fogging out lightly before her. "I _copied_ the design off the _original_ one I took from _Raditz_, okay? That one exploded when you were fighting Goku, so _this_ _time_ I had to build one from scratch!" she waited a moment for response, but when the Prince returned only a guarded silence, she frowned with just a hint of her temper, shrugging to bring her hands up in helpless surrender; defensive. "What? Is it really so hard to believe? I did help dad with the rebuild of the gravity generator too, you know, and I'm usually the one who upgrades it for you!"

His mouth ticked then, lips drawing thin as the act found purchase to insult him, and old itch trailing Vegeta's spine resentfully. "…So you happily steal from the dead, I see. Spoils looted from one of my own fallen brethren and held onto, with every intent to be used against me in future…" dark eyes narrowed dangerously as the truth of it came to light. "That is the case, isn't it? You were told Nappa and I would come, so you stole it to keep track of us when we did and gauge our power. Did you ransack his ship as well? Perhaps you stripped the corpse of his armour, hoping to duplicate and sell it as _your_ design." His head cocked to one side and a hateful glare took stock of her below. "Has your corporation _always_ made its profits on stolen technologies, or is that just a recent development?"

"It wasn't exactly like he was _using_ it anymore! The guy was _dead, _and I'm sorry, but he did try to kill us, you know! Taking advantage of the enemy's resources is pretty fair, in my opinion, and you're being a total hypocrite! I know for a _fact_ you did exactly the same thing up on Namek, fighting Frieza! Now get down here and stop being such a dick about it!" the Heiress would point a finger at the ground, as if telling a dog to sit, and upon seeing that the Prince growled down in response to flash sharp canines at her.

Both of them held their positions for a moment, a brief contest of wills that declared one of them would have to give first, though it was clear the pair were as stubborn as ever. Finally, catching herself with a roll of blue eyes, Bulma shook her head. Annoyed now, she decided to try some reverse psychology instead, heaving a sigh and hoping for a better result soon. "Geez, I won't _bite_ you or anything! Why are you always so damn evasive, all the time? I mean, come on, you're hiding in a tree, for goodness sake! What, is it 'no girls allowed' or something? Don't _make_ me come up there!"

_And here he claims he's __**not**__ a monkey…_

When even that didn't do, the Saiyan shifted on his branch, placing a gloved hand to the trunk and looking as if he were about to take off again—desperate now, Bulma took a risk and gave it one more try.

"…Only cowards hide like this, Vegeta! Are you really so afraid of having a _conversation_?"

Caught off guard, he appeared to be affronted by such a challenge at first. Bulma watched his expression change, and it seemed the Prince was quick to fall for her goading, stepping off of his branch with haste to jump down and face her. Bending his knees lightly to land upon frost covered grass with a soft crunch underfoot, Vegeta was quick to resume his full height, stalking toward her with a snarl as gloved hands tightened into fists either side of him. Well, at least she'd gotten him down as planned—she had a feeling if she prodded a bit, he'd fall for the rise.

A triumphant little smirk curved her lips for it briefly, until over the short few steps between them those dark eyes of his met hers with a strange flash caught in them. Any amusement fled her when she saw it, a bemused blink sending her blank as she found herself unsure of how to read the look he was giving her. He wore as ever that dark scowl, a tired and angry thing formed of years worth of hate and bitterness, but somewhere swirling in the black smoke of his gaze, the Heiress swore she saw something else—perhaps it was hurt, maybe confusion or disorder as whatever thoughts he was having suddenly betrayed him, but whatever it was, the change was as subtle as it was instant.

She could literally see something winding tight within him, threatening to snap as she was reminded of the day he had blown that hole in the ship—the déjà vu was uncanny, every twitch of his muscles, the waver of his glare, the flash of sharp canines. The baffled Prince, unable to understand her intentions and scouring her form for any clue as to the truth of it; the Heiress caught staring at him intrigued, unsure and simply unable to retreat from the sinister sight of his advance. That jump in her pulse, caught somewhere between unease and concern, perplexed as she fumbled the scouter in her hand to hide it behind her thigh, just as she had with the key.

She recognised it then, a tiny moment of eureka as blue eyes widened—he had the same glint in his eye he held before she'd pelted the key at him, losing herself to cry instead of spitting poison at him that day. That quiet, lost uncertainty when the first tear had slid down her cheek, hidden thinly behind the mask of rage; she realised then that the Prince must've second guessed what to expect from her more often than not, probably never knowing _what_ she was thinking or how she truly perceived him.

When she heard the frustrated pique in his voice, Bulma had her confirmation. Vegeta wasn't the only enigma that couldn't be figured out, it seemed—perhaps he wasn't so alien from her after all.

"You're the one who would hide from _me_, safe behind your precious pet, Kakarot! You wanted me _gone_, and now that I've left, you come asking where _I've_ been like I owe _you _an answer!? Why can't you just leave me _**alone**_!? Obviously my word is worth less than nothing to you, so what difference does it make _what_ I say? You don't want to talk; you want to find out why I've refused to accept staying put under your heel when Kakarot _begged_ your clemency and you _deigned _to allow it! I held up my end of the accord, you capricious snake, you're the one withholding your damn technology to lord it over—as you so succinctly put it—a _stupid monkey _who cannot fix it himself!"

When he threw the words back at her like that, Bulma couldn't help but wince for them—the way they sounded so harsh, dripping from his mouth like blood torn fresh from old wounds. She regretted calling him that now; even in her anger, even though she didn't know the story behind it, she could guess it was an insult that meant more to him than she would ever intend it to be. Distantly aware of the little voice in the back of her head, Yamcha's warning ringing there faintly, she tucked the word away never to be used again.

The Heiress kept her head inclined low, taking the brunt of his anger in stride and biting the inside of her cheek to stifle her own frustrations with him—what he was spouting at her didn't seem to make much sense in her mind, and Bulma found herself a little shocked by his apparent perception of her. She didn't know exactly what she'd done to trigger such a negative twist to be taken of her actions, but now was the time to put him straight, and in doing so hopefully fix the tenuous alliance between them.

Acidic, he turned his body away from her some, keeping his gaze upon her as he spat his venom and looked just about ready dismiss her once again. "_**You're**_ the one who sought _**me, **_and you'd do well to remember that! Now spit it out, Woman, what do you want from me so badly you'd revive a worn-out piece of trash like that just to track me down!?"

She wasn't entirely sure what to make of it, but it sounded to her almost as if she'd upset him when calling in Goku to escort him off the premises—quite often, she supposed, she forgot about the fact that despite all evidence to the contrary, somewhere deep inside him there must've been feelings there to hurt. She knew that was the truth, or his reaction to being called a monkey wouldn't have brought all of this up in the first place… the Heiress had been hesitant to bring Goku into things, knowing it might offend him further. Loathe as she was to put her own pride aside and reach for help though, Bulma knew that once she'd hit that point within herself, she hadn't had a choice. Things had to change, and at the time, it looked as if she was out of options.

She had accepted the fact that, over the last eight days, she had missed his presence. Despite all of their troubles, a connection had been forged with the Saiyan—it wasn't friendship, and Bulma still couldn't quite put her finger on what it was… but the odd rapport was there all the same. She had never guessed it would be more than one-sided until now.

When she'd asked to be rid of him, without realising it at the time for her anger, she had threatened to condemn him to death. Her acceptance of him was the only thing separating the Prince from his grave; both of them knew that… from his point of view, it looked as if she thought his life disposable for the flippancy she'd shown in tossing him out.

Nearly two and a half years since the return from Namek; slowly building trust between them, shattered in one bad week as they turned upon each other…

"…I just wanted to see if you were okay."

Bulma didn't look up at him just yet, her gorgeous features dimmed by a rueful grimace as she brought the scouter forward, holding it limply before her and staring down at it. Hours of work had been poured into building it just to find him, and the very thought pained her to do it, but somehow the symbolism of the act was all she could think of to break through his defences—all she needed was the chance to talk, rather than argue, and she knew Vegeta could only do that if she provided him a reason to feel secure… but with this device reminding him of his past at every glance, she would just have to forgive herself for it later.

"You need to stop trying to tell me what I'm thinking, Vegeta. The only reason we're always at each other's throats is because we're too busy making assumptions and not bothering to find out the truth. I know you don't really care about me and Yamcha, but I just found out I had the same problem with him that way too… it was one of the main things that ended us, actually. The only reason I built this thing at all was to find _you_ and talk a few things out."

Turning her hand negligently it would fall to the ground, a tiny bounce given helplessly as it hit a frosted patch dirt, and taking a moment to close her eyes apologetically to her poor creation the Heiress lifted her yellow boot to hover over it maliciously. Quietly she addressed him, not having to peer up to know the Prince's expression would've faltered in some shock. "I think we've had both a pretty bad run lately, and a lot of misunderstandings, so let me just make one thing totally clear right now. I don't care how advanced the technology is, a _thing_ isn't ever going to be more important to me than a _person_."

On that note, perfectly reflecting the way mistrust had crushed her relationship, her boot lowered without mercy on top of the scouter. An agonisingly strained destruction came of it, cracks forming across the glass one after the other under such pressure. Every one of them drew a tense twitch from the Saiyan, dark eyes fixated upon the doomed device as gloved fingers flexed anxiously, waiting for it to suddenly give way to smash and shatter. When finally the glassy crunch came, like a dam finally breaking to let relief wash over him, the flame haired Prince found himself morbidly fascinated—he couldn't place his finger on it, but somehow the act had bought the whole of his attention. Reluctantly turning back toward the Heiress now, he withheld a sigh, internally cursing himself for allowing such distraction… there had to have been conditioning involved, there simply had to, for he found himself strangely drawn to hear her out.

Nodding with a hint of finality, the Heiress glanced up at him with a small smile, a knowing thing that brightened her face and gave her an openness and warmth. "You know something…? I try pretty hard to learn from my mistakes, when I make 'em. I don't like admitting I'm wrong, sure, who does? …But once they come to light, I'll always try to fix them. I think you and me aren't so different that way. Otherwise, you wouldn't be out here in the first place, right?"

Such a simple thing, and yet so subtly sincere—the Woman held a fragile point, perhaps… they would deride and yell, spit barbs and trade quips, argue and resent and blame… at the very best of times, they might offer some small civility, a neutral comment or her attempt at chatter that he quickly dismissed. But _never_ did they simply talk.

He had not wished to talk, of course, but therein lay the dilemma. The Heiress required some sort of interaction from him, and give all of them thus far were negative, it was logical that they had come to this; bad reactions to forced socializing, bottlenecked into blame and aversion. For the accord to be upheld without misgivings breaking down their arrangement, a small compromise had to be made, and he cursed her for backing him into the corner like this.

As the Prince stared at her with wary reticence, the unrelenting scowl sharpening handsome features, the obsessive hold on his prejudice was slowly shaken. He did not accept that the Woman was not Tuffle reincarnate just yet, however if she was genuine in what she said—and he had, perhaps, slightly misjudged her intentions—the only way to truly know was to test such waters. Unfortunately, he could neither act upon countering her indenturing of him nor progress far in his training without giving her a chance to prove herself otherwise.

Returning a sceptical squint to her forgiving smile, the Saiyan leaned back on his heels as if suddenly finding her too close for his liking. "I didn't accept your invitation on the premise that to do so was to go back into slavery, Woman. I will not be ruled by the likes of you, and you can not buy my compliance with your machines. I swore not to harm you and yours, but that does not create a loophole in which you can safely attempt to strike or control me. Our agreement is only binding while I continue to accept your services and take up residence on your property… for these past eight days I have been free of any obligation to you, and so long as I stand here, I still am."

Bulma's brow rose when she heard him, surprised for how specific the Prince was being over a basic ground rule turned verbal contract—_What is he, a lawyer…!? I had no idea he was so iron-clad about it… _Blinking a few times and running over the words in her heard just to make sure she hadn't imagined it, the Heiress realised Vegeta had probably mapped out strict guidelines for how their relationship functioned right down to the fine print, and unaware of it as she was there were probably quite a few rules she'd broken in his book. _I __**knew**__ the guy was insane, I mean, who does that!? The 'no touching me' thing was a joke, for crying out loud, I didn't mean it literally! …Still, if it's saved my hide a couple of times, I guess maybe it's a good thing he took it so seriously. _

Bemused by it, she shook her head lightly, deciding to just go along with how much importance he'd placed on it and making a note of it for the future. "I'm not here to rub our 'agreement' in your face or anything… Really, I didn't _want_ to call Goku, but I didn't think I had any choice… You think I don't take _your_ word seriously, but you don't even seem to _acknowledge_ mine!" her eyes widened to emphasise that, but Bulma quickly withdrew, deciding not to retrace steps now that they were finally seeming to move forward. Watching as her breath fogged out in the chilled air as if the words were visible within it, she slumped some, turning to take a few lazy steps and holding her hands behind her back to look up at the treetops.

"…Look, Vegeta, we had a bad day. I was super stressed out and I over reacted a little, but _you_ shouldn't have been in my room without permission. Obviously, that wasn't part of the _rules_ between us, but it is from now on and the same goes for me and invading your privacy too, okay? You totally _deserved_ to be punched, by the way, with the massive attack on my character. I didn't deserve that, whether you think those things are true or not, and I _know_ you were trying to get under my skin… but whatever was going on in your head, I shouldn't have taken a swing at you. You should've had more restraint rather than just throwing me down too, so that puts us _both_ in the wrong."

She heard him scoff cynically behind, his foot crunching the frosty grass beneath as a challenging step was taken toward her. "Well, if you came out here thinking you would get an apology for these supposedly mutual transgressions, you're sadly mistaken!"

He spat it at her so defensively, she very nearly felt the words hit the back of her neck, and it tore a long and tired sigh from her as she turned her head, glancing back at him over her shoulder. "If you came out here to work on keeping your power in check, then hey, I'm happy enough with that. As long as I know it was an accident and you're making an effort not to let it happen again, then you're still welcome to stay at my place and I promise I'll be more mindful as well, okay? We can just put it behind us and work from here, don't sweat it."

Gritting his teeth now, Vegeta was content to glare a hole in the back of her ridiculous blue hair—he couldn't make sense of her. She had run the full course from conceit to modesty, circling through outrage and coming right around to being humbled by epiphany; insulting him as she turned _his_ technology around on him and claimed it for own, only to crush it under her heel and claim it a means to an end. Tracking him down like prey, and yet when caught, there was to be no flash of her talons… his gaze shifted downward to waver over the slivers of green glass left in the frost.

Though he willed it to be scathing, his voice lost some of its gravel to come quietly. "…So you decide to forgive my actions… and just because you acknowledge your own error, you think it's all said and done?" gloved hands flexed at his sides to betray the uncertainty lingering beneath his skin, and ever sceptical—ever stubborn—the Prince would resist her still. "Did it ever occur to you that perhaps you hadn't gained _my_ clemency for such disrespect, and so I terminated our contract myself? There's no urgency in you at all, and though you often claim to be 'helping' me, you often cost me precious little time. Kakarot grows more powerful by the day, and because I'm forced to rely upon your expediency and whim, I lag even further behind him. Removed from our accord, I cut such losses and reclaimed my control in more ways than one. If I am out here, you cannot tell me when I can and can't train."

A humourless laugh bubbled up from her lips, a puff of fog before her as blue brows furrowed over a fey smile. "I honestly thought this much would be obvious by now, Vegeta, but I don't wanna see you get yourself killed. I'm not making you wait or take breaks from your training to punish you or purposely hold you back, and I don't do it to 'lord' the technology over you, or make you rely on me so I can claim credit later, or _anything_ like that…! I don't even know where you _get_ these ideas!" throwing her hands up to yield, Bulma turned toward him to tilt her head, as if all of this should have been as clear as day without her having to tell him.

"The fact is it takes a lot of time and effort to design, build and install all the equipment you need, and a lot _more_ money—not just to keep you up and running, but to keep you _safe… _To make sure you can go all out in there without another incident like last time. The whole reason I put in the emergency shut off was so that if anything went wrong, I could turn off the gravity from outside and get you out of there; not so that I could lock you in and out or have the power to decide when you trained…"

As Bulma spoke, she found herself desperately tracing the lines of his face for any sign that she was getting through to him; any sliver of empathy and understanding for her side of it that may seep up through the bitter cracks in his façade. His brow relaxed a fraction to lessen the dark scowl he sent her, and slowly the sneer hidden in the corner of his mouth began to dissipate, the sharp hint of a canine vanishing with it. He was guarded still, but his eyes had changed—she could see the smoky gaze swirling with something other than hate or anger, and though she couldn't place what it was, it was certainly a start… that they held something at all was progress. Recalling the hollow stare, bereft of life like the very fires of his soul had been snuffed out, the Heiress found she actually preferred to see resentment flash across them in comparison.

She decided then that she liked the look he was giving her currently—to anybody else, it might be impossible to distinguish any difference from his usual scorn, but for Bulma, his eyes spoke quietly of better things to come between them. It was as if the very weight of his glare had been lifted, and for that a great sense of relief washed over her.

A curious—and somewhat cautious, for the Woman's vulgar nature—twitch of Vegeta's brow came when the Heiress would suddenly glance down at her cleavage, pulling the front of her tank top forward and inadvertently flashing him a small view of her bra. Tensing on instinct, the Prince glanced away quickly when her free hand came to dive into the undergarment, fishing around a moment before pulling something small out of it. Upon hearing the frost crunch with her stepping forward, the Saiyan fixated on a tree to his left, unsure of whether he wanted to look back to her as yet. But when she advanced no further, her outstretched arm lingering amicably in the corner of his vision, Vegeta thought it safe enough to return his attention to her.

As he did though, he found himself shocked; dark eyes widening a fraction to stare—not for her having exposed herself as he'd feared, but for what she presented to him. Held gingerly betwixt thumb and forefinger, glinting under the faded sun like the slivers of ice around them, the little blue key lilted humble; instantly providing substance to back up her words.

"…Brought this for you." She smiled softly, a coy and private thing, and in that moment he couldn't help but notice the key matched her shimmering eyes in colour. Perky curls swayed some as she tilted her head in a cheery way, and her pride for a job well done shone through. "It's all fixed up. The new pressure system is in, door's been replaced with a new opening mechanism as well, and dad swapped out any chipped tiles in the floor. I made sure nobody went in your room during the repairs, too… It's been done for a while actually. But you took off, so you have no excuse to blame me for missing out this past week."

Hesitant at first, the Saiyan's gaze flicked between her face and the key as if unsure of which he should be focussed upon, but then she saw his gloved fingers flex. His hand rose slowly, carefully, hovering just in front of hers and poised to receive—the subtle tremble betrayed how eager he was to simply snatch it, claim it and never let her have it again. But with a great deal of effort to restrain such open possessiveness, Vegeta managed to take the key with aloof decorum instead, offering a curt nod as his hand retreated quickly back to his side.

Stifling a small giggle for it, Bulma withdrew as well, glancing at the ground between their feet and idly toying with a few wisps of blue about her neck. She watched the Prince awkwardly shift his weight from side to side, and she knew their conversation—as well as most of his anger—had come to a standstill. It was almost endearing, she thought, the little quirks that emerged whenever Vegeta was at a loss for how to respond to something; sad too, she noted, that those things were often acts of kindness.

But in her bubbly way, hope restored some and optimistic about the work to come, the Heiress was quick to offer him reprieve with a playful smirk. "Now are you coming home or not?"

The word pricked his ears with a sharp clarity he didn't like, an itch trailing his spine as his grip tightened upon the key. Dark eyes snapped back to her, narrowing as his usual defences came back up to block her instinctively. His jaw wagged in consideration of it, the echo bouncing about in his head and knocking a few old things loose that set him on edge—what a dangerous supposition she'd made, but more shockingly than that, how accurate it was swiftly becoming. In the face of that bitter acuity, he denied it offhand, unwilling to admit to such a thing.

"This place will _never_ be my home, Woman."

But the Woman simply smiled back, giving a light tussle to the back of her locks with such a carefree manner, it almost seemed she hadn't even heard him.

"Joke's on you then…" she teased, offering a roll of her shoulder as she turned away, gesturing for him to follow. "Home isn't a _place_, Vegeta. It's _people_ who care about you, and whether or not you care back, you've got one. So come on."

Much like his resolution to stay put in the tree, Vegeta stubbornly held his ground as she began to walk away, watching the cheeky swing of her hips and struggling with himself to defy her. Frowning, he lifted his hand to inspect the key, ears perking to the scouter glass as it crunched under her steps. He knew he wanted to follow. It took more effort to stay, watching her slowly retreat back through the bushes; swatting them aside as her precious hair was protected… perhaps it was simply the promise of the key. He was allowed his progress once more, free to return to it immediately under the sweet spell gravity placed on his power—he knew also that the blonde would provide him a meal that need not be hunted.

These were the reasons returning appealed to him. The Woman and all her pretty little speeches had very little to do with it…

That was what he told himself.

Through the trees her voice echoed out once again, calling back to him. "There was no red carpet last time, and there's not gonna be one now, Buster, so move it!"

And despite every spiteful reason he could think of not to, when Bulma looked back she found the Prince trailing faithfully behind her, looking all the world like a sulking child.

**A/N:**

**This may sound weird, but it is really hard to write Vegeta when Yo Gabba Gabba is on TV in the background. I wrote this in a couple of sit downs and I didn't get a chance to reread it really, so I hope it's all fluid and okay.**

**Well, the birth of friendship has officially started. Now all the learning about each other can begin. Yay, connection-reconciliation! Poor Bulma, Vegeta is **_**still**_** wary of her. I guess she's figured that the best way to keep her promise to Yamcha and stay safe is to understand Vegeta better.**

**Poor Yamcha would probably be having a heart attack about that decision. Vegeta's headed back to Capsule Corp! But, we're not out of the woods yet… Vegeta's still on his 'Tuffle' trip… at least he's given Bulma the chance to prove him wrong first. At least Bulma got that break she needed to clear her head a little and get some rest.**

**We are now passing 'accustomed to your face' territory, and this is where things are going to start getting… a-complicated.**

**Onwards to Glory!**


End file.
